Hard to Love

Prologue

RYDER

It’s just a matter of seconds that decides life or death. I don’t know how long I have, but at any moment, time could be up.

Tracker’s words ring in my ears.

“Dammit, Ryder. You wait. I’m five out. Don’t leave your bike.”

I crouch low, approaching the side-by-side doors of the box truck, listening and keeping my footsteps light.

I stop, holding my breath. There’s nothing but the sound of my pulse and the hum of diesel engines.

My gut says: rip the doors open. My head warns: be prepared.

I raise my Sig, flipping on the mounted light.

Lifting the bar lock, I swing the door open.

The stench hits in a powerful wave, and I dry heave, taking aim.

My breaths quicken as I survey the cargo bed. Hitching a leg up, I holster my pistol to begin ripping and unbinding, shushing and consoling.

I hear someone clear their throat and spit, followed by low voices. I move faster, scooping and shoving. I lift and drop one to the ground below and then do it again. I point to the field, twisting back for a final check.

My boots hit the pavement with a thud as my gaze tracks the small shadows disappearing around a trailer. The metal door slams into my back. I spin, dazed by the shock. I reach for my gun, but it slips from my grip as searing pain rips through my shoulder, cutting off all air to my lungs.

Fire tears through my flesh, and I stumble back into the darkness, spots crowding my vision. I make out two forms. One lunges toward me. The other curses in a language I only partially understand as he swings the truck doors wide, searching for his stock.

A hand yanks my elbow, the other wielding a bloody six-inch blade, raised to plunge again. My instincts trigger, and I dodge, loosening his grip and setting him off balance.

Keeping my arm tucked tight to my core, I land a kick to the side of his knee. I hear a snap, he roars, and I smash another into his lowered face. He slumps to the ground, writhing in pain. I watch the other guy slink into the cover of darkness as a truck driver hollers.

I stagger back a few steps, keeping my eyes clear and trained on the devil before me, holding his mangled leg, blood dripping from his nostrils. I use every bit of my energy to spin, and my heel makes contact with his skull, giving extra assurance that he stays put.

A few truck drivers approach as I retreat behind the protection of a freight trailer, keeping my body upright and verifying my path is clear.

My stomach rolls with the urge to vomit as the pain settles in and radiates through my left side, but I force myself away. Step by step, I walk toward the clearing where I know he’ll see me, keeping my eyes roaming in every direction.

In the distance, I hear the whisper of sirens. My exhale comes in a rush. I don’t know much, but I know darkness cowers at even a flicker of light.

I clench my jaw, holding my arm across my body as I inch away from the lot and into the open field.

Two headlights shine in the distance, and the outline of a familiar figure steps into their path. Running. He’s coming. The long grass swipes my legs with each step, and the lumpy ground slows my pace. I stumble.

The cool breeze hits my blood-soaked T-shirt, and my adrenaline fades along with my vision. What was clear turns fuzzy, and everything slowly closes in.

The rough ground bites into my knees as I sink down.

Here. He’ll just have to come get me here. He’s strong. He can handle it.

When my butt hits my heels, I crumple forward. I watch as Track stops, crouching before the tiny figures, and I smile, knowing life won this time.