Chapter Thirteen
Nova
Bullets tore through the air above my head, splintering the wooden crate I’d ducked behind.
The evidence bag clutched against my chest felt like the most precious thing in the world -- proof of my parents’ murder, the corruption that had taken their lives, the trafficking ring they’d died exposing.
Doc crouched beside me, his breathing steady despite the chaos, his injured arm held close to his body as he peered around our cover.
Blood darkened his sleeve where Wallace’s bullet had grazed him at the cabin, but he showed no sign of slowing down.
“Stay low.” Doc’s voice remained even against the storm of gunfire. “When I say move, we head for that red container. Tank’s team is providing cover.”
I nodded, adrenaline making my heart hammer against my ribs. My ankle throbbed inside the brace, reminding me I wasn’t at full speed. Doc must have read it on my face, his eyes softening for just a moment before the professional mask returned.
“I won’t let you fall behind,” he promised.
The Prospect who’d been guarding the door returned fire, the sound deafening in the cavernous space. Somewhere in the maze of shipping containers, I could hear Tank shouting orders, followed by another burst of gunfire.
“Now!” Doc barked, grabbing my arm and pulling me up.
We sprinted across the open space, my injured ankle screaming in protest with each step.
Doc half-dragged me, his body partially shielding mine as bullets pinged off metal containers around us.
The red shipping container loomed ahead, promising momentary safety.
We slammed against it, breathing hard, just as another volley of shots ripped through the space we’d occupied seconds before.
“You okay?” Doc’s gaze scanned me for injuries.
“Fine.” Although, my ankle felt like it was on fire. “The evidence is safe.”
Doc nodded, relief flashing across his features before his attention snapped toward a sound to our left.
A club member -- one of the Prospects from the perimeter team -- staggered into view, clutching his side where dark blood spread across his shirt.
He managed two more steps before collapsing face-first onto the concrete floor.
“Shit.” Doc took off toward the fallen man despite the ongoing gunfire.
I wanted to scream at him to stay in cover, but my voice caught in my throat as I watched him army-crawl to the Prospect’s side.
Even with bullets flying and his own injury, Doc’s movements were precise, efficient.
He reached the Prospect and dragged him behind a stack of pallets, immediately checking for a pulse.
“How bad?” I called, clutching the evidence bag tighter.
“Through and through. Missed anything vital.” Doc’s voice was clinical, his hands already working to stabilize the wound with supplies from the small kit he carried. “He’ll live.”
A fresh burst of gunfire forced me deeper into the shadow of the container.
The Prospect guarding me returned fire, his face tense with concentration.
Through gaps in the containers, I caught glimpses of other club members advancing, pushing Wallace’s men back toward the loading bay.
Tank’s massive form appeared briefly, as he directed two brothers with military precision.
Doc finished bandaging the wounded Prospect, leaving him hidden behind the pallets as he crawled back to our position. His face was tight with pain, his previously injured arm clearly bothering him more than he let on.
“They’re trying to flank us.” He nodded toward a catwalk that ran along the far wall. “We need to move before --”
His words cut off as a man stepped into view at the end of our row -- not a club member, but a tall, broad-shouldered enforcer in tactical gear. Light glinted off the semi-automatic weapon in his hands as he spotted us.
“Down!” Doc shouted, pushing me flat against the floor as gunfire erupted.
The Prospect guarding us fired back, driving the enforcer into cover. The advantage vanished. Gunfire pinned us down, trapping us between the shooter at the end of the row and the open space behind us.
“We need to split up,” Doc said, his mouth close to my ear.
“No,” I protested, grabbing his sleeve. “We stay together.”
The look he gave me was equal parts frustration and something softer that made my chest ache. “Nova --”
More gunfire interrupted him, closer this time. The enforcer was advancing, using the shipping containers as cover. Through the chaos, I heard Tank’s voice on the comms, ordering a team to our position. Help was coming, but not fast enough.
“When I create a distraction, you run for that blue container,” Doc instructed, ignoring my protest. “Tank’s team will meet you there.”
Before I could argue, he was moving, darting from our cover to a position where he could draw the enforcer’s attention.
The man took the bait, his weapon swinging toward Doc who fired two precise shots in return.
The enforcer ducked, giving me the window I needed.
I sprinted for the blue container, my ankle a distant agony as survival instinct took over.
I reached the container, pressing my back against its cool metal surface.
The evidence bag felt heavy against my chest, its contents the reason for all this bloodshed.
I peered around the edge, trying to locate Doc through the chaos of the firefight.
He was moving between cover positions, leading the enforcer away from me, drawing danger to himself.
Somewhere along the way, I’d lost track of the Prospect.
That’s when I saw it -- movement on the catwalk above. A second shooter, rifle braced against the metal railing, taking aim at the space below. At me.
“Doc!” I screamed, but the thunder of gunfire overpowered my voice, drowning me out.
He turned anyway, some sixth sense alerting him to new danger. His eyes found the shooter, then tracked the rifle’s aim to where I stood. I saw the realization hit him, saw him calculate distances and odds in the split second before he acted.
“Nova, down!” he shouted, already moving toward me with impossible speed.
I dropped to the ground as Doc threw himself across the space between us.
The sniper’s shot cracked through the warehouse, the sound different from the automatic weapons -- sharper, more defined.
Doc’s body jerked mid-stride, but he didn’t stop, didn’t falter until he reached me.
He collapsed against the shipping container beside me, sliding down until he sat on the concrete, his face ghost-white with shock.
“Doc?” My voice broke as I saw the spreading darkness on his shirt, high on his chest near his uninjured shoulder.
“I’m okay.” Despite his words, I noted his breathing had gone shallow. “Just a scratch.”
It was so far from a scratch that I might have laughed if terror hadn’t frozen my lungs.
Blood seeped between his fingers as he pressed his hand against the wound.
I dropped to my knees beside him, the evidence bag forgotten as I applied pressure to the injury, my hands shaking so badly I could barely keep them in place.
“You stupid, stubborn man.” My voice broke as tears blurred my vision. “Why would you do that?”
Doc grimaced through his pain, his face pale but his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that stole my breath. “Couldn’t let anything happen to you. Not now.”
Something transcended the chaos around us, the blood warming my hands, the evidence we’d fought so hard to secure.
I saw the truth in his eyes -- the same truth that had been growing in my heart since that first kiss in his truck, since every moment he’d stood beside me when the world tried to bury my parents’ story.
“Doc,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say, how to put into words the realization crystallizing inside me.
He brought his bloodied hand up to touch my face, leaving a smear of red across my cheek. “I know.”
Around us, the sounds of fighting suddenly diminished.
Tank’s voice boomed through the warehouse, announcing that Wallace was in custody, that his men were surrendering.
Club members moved efficiently through the containers, securing weapons, checking for threats.
Someone called for a medic, then spotted us huddled against the container.
“Doc’s hit!” a voice shouted. “We need a trauma kit over here!”
I kept pressure on his wound, unwilling to move, to break the connection between us. Doc’s gaze stayed on mine, steady despite the pain that tightened the corners of his mouth.
“You have to be okay.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “I’m not losing anyone else I --” The word caught in my throat, too new and fragile to voice.
Doc’s fingers tightened on my arm. “You won’t lose me. Takes more than one bullet to keep me from you.”
Tank appeared beside us, his massive frame blocking out the overhead lights as he kneeled to check Doc’s wound. “Medics are coming,” he said, his gruff voice gentler than I’d heard before. “You hold on, brother.”
I sat back on my heels, allowing Tank to take over the pressure on Doc’s wound while keeping my hand firmly in Doc’s grip.
The evidence bag lay forgotten beside me, its contents secured but suddenly less important than the man bleeding before me.
I’d found justice for my parents, but I’d found something else -- someone worth living for beyond the vengeance that had driven me for so long.
As club members secured the warehouse and subdued the last of Wallace’s corrupt deputies, I held onto Doc’s hand like it was a lifeline. In a way, it was. He had become my anchor in a storm I’d been fighting alone for too long. And I wasn’t ready to let go.
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