by Tracy Wolff
After dodging a brand-new Cadillac Escalade and a Hyundai Santa Fe, I make it to the next corner and turn right. Now I’m back on the street we were originally on, but heading straight back toward the police station.
Fuck that. Calls have probably gone out about our little adventure on the one-way street, so I make another left, speeding away from where I last saw the Interceptor. A quick glance at Jordan tells me she’s white-knuckling it, but she’s hanging in there.
So I go for it, hitting a hundred as I weave through traffic—this time on the right side of the road at least. I’m five minutes from Hotwired, ten from my house, but I don’t want to go to either place until I get Jordan to safety.
The only question is where will she be safe? Where won’t Anderson or Jacobs or any of the other asshole cops they work with think to look for her?
I dodge around a huge Suburban, taking advantage of the empty space in the right lane as I speed toward the next main street. At least until a Toyota Prius turns right in front of me and I’m forced to slam over to the left lane behind a black Crown Vic.
The second I’m behind it, the driver of the Crown Vic slams on his brakes. Shit! I hit mine as well, but something’s not right. The driver’s watching me in his rearview mirror, deliberately slowing me down.
A glance to the left, which shows the Interceptor heading straight for me on the next side street, and I know if I don’t get out of here I’m going to end up sandwiched between the two of them.
Fuck.
I reach between the seats for the emergency brake and pull it up, hard. The car jerks and Jordan screams. The back of the car fishtails and we go into a skid—exactly as I planned. I turn the wheel, hard and fast, into the skid and then hit the gas. Seconds later, we’re speeding in the other direction.
I take a right at the first side street, gun it past a second Interceptor. Goddamnit! How many people are in on this chase? And was the whole thing set up from the beginning?
That doesn’t make sense, though, and I don’t exactly have time to analyze the evidence right now. So I don’t. Instead I concentrate on driving, and on trying to get us the fuck out of here.
A quick left has me speeding toward the beach, one of the Interceptors right on my tail. Another one has me turning into a neighborhood with cute little houses and a street sign that reads 35 mph. I blow past it at a hundred and ten. Once I’m through this neighborhood, there’s a stretch of empty road and then there’s a parking garage and a huge medical building at the end of the street. If I can get us into the garage, it will buy me a few minutes to get Jordan out so that I can lead them away from her.
It’s not great as plans go, but at this point, it’s all I’ve got. If I slow down, they’re going to get us. Either one of the vehicles I already know about or one that I haven’t seen yet.
We’re close, really close, when a third Interceptor—at least I think it’s the third one—comes flying straight toward us. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I hit the gas, pushing my Hemi faster, speeding straight at him. He’s gunning for me, too, though, and this really is playing chicken. Really is a battle to see who’s going to blink first. It’s not going to be me.
“Brace yourself,” I shout at Jordan, even though I don’t think it’s going to come to that. She does it without question, hunching her shoulders and bending her head. I keep my foot on the gas, preparing to swerve at the last possible second if I have to, but I know he’s waiting for me to do that. Know there’s probably another car in the other lane just waiting for me to do that so it can take me out. Which means I need to scare this bastard enough to get him out of my way.
We’re close now, too close. One of us has to—
Fuuuuuuuck! We’re spinning. Another car—the Crown Vic, I think—just came out of nowhere, hitting me in the front right quarter panel and sending us spinning around in circles.
Then the Interceptor’s plowing into us, too, clipping the car in just the right way to send us flying.
Air bags deploy as we roll several times. Somehow, I don’t know how, we manage to come to a stop right side up.
“Jordan, are you okay?” I demand, shoving at the deployed air bag so I can get a look at her face.
“I’m okay,” she says, but her voice sounds a little faint.
Goddamnit. I need to get her out of here, but the engine’s shot from that first hit. They’re closing in and I don’t even know if she’s hurt or not.
Knowing I need to protect her, I tell her, “Call Jace. Get help.” Then I shove my creaking door open and all but jump from the car. They’re closing in, Anderson and a couple of his henchman all heading straight for me on foot, their guns out and murder in their eyes.
There’s no getting out of this, not for me. I only hope I can stall them long enough for Jace and the others to get here. Maybe then, I can still save Jordan.
“It didn’t have to go down like this,” Anderson tells me when he’s close enough that he doesn’t have to shout.
I glance around, but we’re on that empty stretch of road—no houses, no businesses, no cars. “It was always going to go down like this and you know it.”
He inclines his head. “Maybe you’re right. You and I’ve never been very good at coexisting, have we, Medina?”
“I guess you could say that.”
He’s close now, though he takes care not to get within range of my hands or feet. Plus he keeps his gun leveled at my head. As do two of the guys with him.
“Get the girl,” he tells the third one, who heads around to the passenger side of the car.
“Leave her alone. She doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Maybe she didn’t, but you sure changed that, didn’t you?” Anderson keeps his eyes on me as he reiterates, “Get her.”
The other cop does as he’s told, pulling Jordan roughly from the car. She starts to cry out, then bites the sound back. But it’s already arrowing into the heart of me, the fact that she’s hurt because I fucked up again. That she may die because of it.
“Where is it?” Anderson asks once they’ve brought Jordan over to him.
“Where’s what?” I demand. I’m trying to play it cool, trying to act like I don’t give a shit about her, but I can tell the ship’s already sailed on that one.
“Don’t play games with me, Medina. My people have taken that car apart. We know that whatever was once in there isn’t there now—and you’re the only one who’s had a chance to retrieve it.”
“First of all, I’m not playing games. You’re the one who came after me, Anderson. You didn’t have to blackmail me into stealing that car. You could have had one of Raul’s buddies do it instead. And secondly, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I couldn’t chance anything going wrong. You’re the best, Medina. Always were. Hell, we both know you never would have landed in jail if I hadn’t faked that evidence against you. So hell, yeah, I needed you.”
He glances down at Jordan. “You know who I don’t need, though? I could shoot her right now and it wouldn’t affect me one way or the other. Too bad you can’t say the same thing, huh?”
I’m counting in the back of my head, trying to keep track of how long it will be before Jace and the others get here. Too long, I think. I’m not stalling well enough. We’ll both be dead by the time they show up.
“So, I’m going to ask you one more time where the information is. And if you don’t answer, I’m going to kill her.”
He’s not bluffing. I can see it in his eyes. I can also see that once he knows where it is, once he’s verified the answer, I’m dead anyway. Which isn’t my first choice, but it’s not like I haven’t been expecting it all along. But I need him to let Jordan go first. I need her to be okay.
“Let Jordan walk away,” I tell him. “And I’ll take you to where I’ve got it hidden.”
“How about you tell me where it is, I have one of my colleagues go retrieve it, and if it’s actually where you say it is, you both get to live.”
“That’s not going to happen, Medina.”
“Well, then, we’ve got a problem.”
“I don’t think we do. Because if you don’t tell me, I’m going to kill her.”
“Yeah, but if you do that, you’ll lose all your leverage. Because if she dies, it won’t matter what you do to me. I won’t tell you jack shit. And you know me well enough to know that’s true.”
“Goddamnit, Medina. Always got to do things the hard way, don’t you.” He pulls back his fist and slams it into Jordan’s face.
I go for him then, my only thought to get to him before he hurts her worse. And then to kill him for putting his hands on her.
But something slams into my shoulder, knocks me back so hard that I nearly fall. Pain hits me, hard.
“You shot him!” Jordan screams at one of the men behind Anderson and that’s when it registers what just happened.
“And he’ll shoot him again if one of you doesn’t start talking,” Anderson tells her. The words are accompanied by a well-placed kick to her rib cage.
“Don’t fucking touch her again!”
“Where’s the information, Nic?” He pulls back his foot like he’s going to kick her a second time.
“It’s on a computer at Hotwired,” I tell him, hoping I’ve stalled enough. Jace should be here any second and there’s no way I’m going to let him do one more thing to Jordan. “You can send someone over to get it right now. Just don’t hurt her anymore.”
“It’s at Hotwired?” he asks. “That’s seriously where you kept it?”
“Yeah. It’s encrypted. I don’t even know what it is.”
“You always were a stupid bastard, Medina.” He turns to one of the other cops. “Get over there right now and get it. If anyone gives you any trouble, kill them. But get the information.”
“I’m on it,” the other guy answers, but before he can make a move toward his car, I see them. Jace, Payton, and Sean barreling toward us from one direction while Gabe, Lena, and Heath are coming at us from another.
Anderson sees it, too. “You son of a bitch,” he screams, bringing his gun up.
“Jordan, get down!” I scream, already running toward her as the other cops start firing at my friends’ cars.
But his gun’s not aimed at her, thank God. It’s aimed at me and I stop, more than willing to make myself a target if it saves her.
“No,” Jordan yells, and then she’s running, too, leaping in front of me just as Anderson’s gun goes off.
I watch in horror as she falls at my feet, blood flowing from a wound on her back and leaking slowly onto the asphalt.
Anderson brings his gun up, levels it at me. But I throw myself at him, knocking him backward and into the ground as adrenaline courses through me. My wounded shoulder is screaming, but I barely notice it as I slam his head against the pavement in an attempt to knock him out. I want to kill him, but I don’t have time for that right now. I just need him to cease being a threat so I can get to Jordan.
All around us guns are going off, and I look up just in time to watch Sean slam his Shelby Mustang GT straight into one of the other cops. Judging from the sounds coming from behind me, my friends have done pretty much the same thing to the others.
One more slam of his head against the ground and Anderson’s eyes roll back in his head. There’s a voice inside me urging me to kill him, to just pick up the gun and shoot him between the eyes while I have the chance. To end it all right here now.
But he’s no threat at the moment and there’s Jordan to think of.
I leap off him and race the short distance back to Jordan. Heath and Lena get there the same time I do, Lena’s phone already out as she calls for an ambulance.
I check for a pulse, nearly collapse in relief when I realize it’s fast and thready, but it’s there. Jordan’s still alive.
But she won’t be for long if we don’t stanch the blood.
After slipping my hand beneath her to see if the bullet exited her chest—it didn’t—I pull off my T-shirt and wad it up. Then I press it against her wound.
She’s nearly unconscious, but she cries out softly at the pain. “I’m sorry, baby,” I tell her, stroking the hair away from her face with my free hand. “I have to stop the bleeding.”
Just then, another Interceptor pulls up and Jacobs and another guy jump out of it, guns drawn.
“Fuck!” Jace says, jumping to his feet beside me, hands already in the air as Jacobs levels his gun at him. “We can explain everything. Anderson—”
Before he can get anything else out, Jacobs fires.
Lena screams and I turn to stare at my best friend, fearing the worst. But he’s still standing and there’s no blood on him at all. Jacobs keeps moving, straight to Anderson’s prone figure. Anderson’s gun is in his hand and that’s when I figure it out. Jacobs isn’t here to hurt us. In fact, I think he just saved my life.
“You killed him,” Payton says numbly.
“Yeah, well, he needed killing.”
“How did you know where we were?” Heath demands.
Jacobs crouches down next to Jordan and pulls a tiny little sensor off the back of her collar. “I bugged her. And it’s a good thing I did otherwise this would be an even bigger clusterfuck than it already is. I’ve got Life Flight on the way—their ETA is about two minutes.”
I stare at him for a second, barely comprehending what he’s saying. Barely comprehending that the same bastard who tortured Jordan with her past is actually the one who might save her in the end.
“Thank you,” I say as the helicopter comes into view.
He shakes his head grimly. “You can thank me if she lives.”
Chapter 25
Jordan
I come to slowly, unaware of where I am or how I got here. All I know is that I hurt. My head, my back, my chest—my whole body, really. Like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to me. Or worse.
Gradually, I become aware of other things. A slight but persistent pain in my hand. A steady beeping noise. A strange antiseptic smell. As all of that registers, everything else comes flooding back. The car chase, the crash, Anderson.
Nic! What happened to Nic?
My eyes fly open at the thought of him and I try to sit up. And there he is, slumped in a chair by the side of my bed, eyes closed and body all folded up in an unnatural position.
“Nic?” It comes out as little more than a croak, but his eyes fly open. And then he’s standing by my bed, his hand clutching mine.
“You’re awake. You’re awake.” There are tears in his eyes as he stares at me. “They said it would take longer.” He leans over and presses a button next to my bed.
“What happened?”
He pauses. “You don’t remember?”
I shake my head and then moan a little because it hurts. I hurt.
“Anderson shot you. They had to take you into surgery to remove the bullet and repair some damage. You’re in the recovery room right now.”
I spend a minute turning his words over in my head, measuring them against everything I remember. Then it comes back to me and I once again struggle to sit up as panic assails me.
“What about you?” I demand. “He shot you, too. What about you?”
Nic, very firmly but gently, eases me back down against the bed. “It’s just a flesh wound. The bullet went right through me. Unlike you, where it bounced around your organs and caused as much damage as possible.” He shakes his head, looking angrier and more torn up than I have ever seen him. “I can’t believe you did that. I can’t believe you jumped in front of that bullet for me.”
I try to lift a hand to stroke the scowl off his face. But it’s too hard, my hand feels too heavy for my arm to lift.
Before I can do anything else, a nurse comes in, checks my vitals. She side-eyes Nic a little, but she doesn’t say anything to him as she records my blood pressure and heart rate. “How are you feeling?” she asks when she’s done. “It’s no
rmal to be nauseous and a bit disoriented. That’s the anesthesia wearing off.”
“I’m okay right now,” I whisper, my voice little more than a croak. I feel like I’m fading fast.
“Good. Get some more sleep and the next time you wake up maybe we’ll try an ice chip or two, see how you do with that.”
“Thank you.”
She looks at Nic, harrumphs a little, then finds her way out of the fabric drapes that surround my bed. By the time she’s gone, my eyes are closing again. I fight to stay awake, but I’m so tired and everything hurts so badly.
“Go to sleep,” Nic tells me. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
—
I spend the next several hours drifting in and out of consciousness and Nic is there every step of the way. He holds my hands, reassures me, rubs the promised ice chips on my lips. He even reminds me to click the morphine drip they have set up to help me manage pain.
I don’t like the stupid thing—it makes me nauseous in a way the anesthetic didn’t, and I spend most of my precious waking moments staring at the ceiling and trying not to puke. Largely because I can’t imagine the pain associated with puking this soon after major surgery.
So, instead, I close my eyes and try to will it away. But every time I do, I end up falling asleep. On the plus side, each time that happens, I get to wake up to find Nic watching me.
He’s always there. No matter how little or how much time passes between my periods of lucidity, he’s always right there. Slumped in a chair or standing by my bed. I’m vaguely aware that the nurse has tried to kick him out several times, but he refuses to go.
I’m not sure how much longer it is—between the anesthesia and the morphine I’m pretty out of it—before the doctor comes to check on me. I’m finally a little more alert than I was, the morphine finally starting to wear off once I was awake enough to stop myself from clicking the button.
Neither Nic nor the nurse are impressed by my restraint, but they don’t get it. I don’t like feeling out of control. Ever. I get that the morphine is for my own good, get that the pain will be excruciating when it finally wears off completely. But, until they can find something that doesn’t make me so damn loopy, I’ll have to take my chances.
