Page 85 of Violent Skies

“Type B!” She darts toward one of the cars.

“Cover your face!” Murphy screams after her and she nods before dipping back into the rain. “What now?”

“Keep pressure on this,” she says to him and he switches places with her hands. “Rafe,” she turns to me. “Where’s your gun?”

“Here?” I pull it out of the back of my jeans with a tight expression on my face. She's stern, quick, focused, but everything she’s saying feels erratic and unfinished.

“Good. Keep it ready. There were two—” she stops as Jet slides back into the garage with a pile of towels. She hands one to Murphy. A package of peppermint gum hits the bench and, without care, I watch her unwrap a piece with bloody hands and pop it into her mouth before she tucks the wrapper into Riggs’s limp hand. “Switch,” she demands. He lifts his hands and she changes it out with practiced precision. “Two drivers. They led us up to a dead end. I don’t think Riggs was supposed to make it out—” She pauses again to dig her phone out of her pocket.

“They’re both dead… Here.” She holds the phone out to Murphy, he stares at it for a second, his hands covered in blood still leaning over the table to try to keep what Riggs has left inside of him. She sets it on the table, taking over for him and he wipes his hands dry before grabbing it. “There are photos on there!”

“If they’re both dead, why do I have my gun out?” I hiss at her.

“Bowie,” she calls. “Vodka.”

Bowie jogs over to the table, her eyes massive as she ties her blonde hair into a high pony tail. “Where?”

“Here,” Cress points. Bowie cracks the bottle and dumps the clear liquor over the wound and Riggs lurches off the table. Good, he’s alive. “Because there was a third driver and I tried to lose him, but I don’t know if I did.”

“You did really fucking good, Cress,” I tell her, because if it was Riggs, and he could, he would.

“Say that after we keep him alive,” she nods, but there’s a lightness to her eyes that I’ve been searching for.

My vision fades in and out, but I can hear them talking. Murphy rambles and Cress is barking orders. Atta girl. Where’s Birdie? I want to sit up but my entire body is on fire. I need to know what’s going on. And then there’s nothing again. Everything is gone. I can’t feel my body and the nausea that rolls up burns like acid every time I get a sense of reality.

I roll over—or at least I think I do—and the vomit churns out onto the floor.

“Fucking hell,” Jesse swears, stepping away from me. “Is that normal?” he asks across the table, and as I roll back Cress comes into view. Her curls are still pulled back in the ponytail, only there’s a bunch of sweaty rogue ones around her face. Blood is smeared across her pale forehead — mine, no doubt. I try to reach for her but my body feels like lead.

“Don’t.” She gets closer, pressing her lips to my face. “Just stay still.”

“My shoulder—” I hiss quietly. “It’s on fire.”

“I’m sorry,” she winces. “I only had a pair of pliers to get the bullet out. I dug around in your body pretty badly.” Her guilty whisper breaks my heart. “There’s some pretty horrible sutures in there. They aren’t really my specialty and my hands won’t stop shaking.” She just keeps talking.

“Baby,” I whisper, reaching out to find her again and she takes my hand, pressing it to her chest. “Breathe.” I wait, listening, and can feel her chest rise and fall in a gentle breath.

I blink, closing my eyes for a second.

Darkness engulfs everything with inky fog.

“You lost the only race that ever mattered, Riggs. This is your punishment.”

Dying. I’m dying. I can feel it in my lungs, every breath I take feels weaker.

“I should have never told him.”

“Told him what?” Cress’s voice breaks through the shadows.

“That I loved you,” I whisper, my throat dry. “He used it against me.”

“You have a fever. Bird’s on her way back. She’s bringing blood.” Cress runs her hand through my damp hair.

“No, Cress, listen,” I huff. “You gotta—” I cough again, my stomach curling in on itself as thunder booms. “Is that rain?” I whisper. The smell of it washes in and pushes around the copper tang in my nose.

Rain is never a good sign.

My brain is like a rubber band. It stretches, remembers everything—then snaps back, and every small, vicious memory is gone.