Chapter 3
THREE
BELLAMY
Heat is the first thing I feel.
Not sunlight exactly. Just a hard, punishing warmth pressed against my cheek, baked into the asphalt, seeping into my skin like the road is trying to brand itself onto me.
There’s gravel in my mouth. Blood too, metallic and thick on my tongue.
Somewhere above me the world is screaming in a cacophony of sound.
It reaches me through a high, relentless ringing that makes everything sound somehow too loud and muffled.
Everything throbs, and my stomach rolls. For one dizzy second, I have no idea which way is up.
Then movement jolts through me, rough enough to make pain flare bright and white behind my eyes.
Gage’s face appears above mine, blood sliding over his brow and dipping toward his eye. His mouth is moving but I can’t hear him over the ringing in my ears. I try to stop the blood before it hits his eye, but my arm doesn’t follow my command.
What the hell is going on?
His brows crease. Rough palms wedge between my spine and the hot pavement.
The world tilts as he hauls me upward—a lightning bolt shoots from my shoulder down to my fingertips, white-hot and electric.
My lungs seize. Black spots dance behind my clenched eyelids, and then gravity shifts again, my stomach lurching as I feel weightless for one terrifying second.
I’m jostled again, and I grit my teeth against a wave of nausea and confusion.
The world bounces in rhythm. My cheek presses against something unyielding that rises and falls with breath.
My feet dangle over empty space, knees caught in the crook of an arm.
Sweat and gunpowder fill my nostrils with each inhale, mingling with the scent of cotton baked by the sun.
My left side screams with each footfall, the pain lighting up like a struck match every time my carrier’s boot hits the ground.
I peel my eyes open to a blur of tan skin and dark stubble where I expected Gage’s smooth jaw. Bishop’s face hovers above mine, hard angles and tight lines where there should be Gage’s easy smile. The scar cutting through his left eyebrow twitches as he adjusts his grip.
“Bishop?”
He glances down at me. A muscle flutters along his jawline like a trapped moth.
A droplet breaks free from his hairline, cutting a crooked path through the dust coating his skin before disappearing beneath his collar.
Sunlight catches something wet and dark streaking from his hairline to his collar—turning the smear copper-bright for just a heartbeat.
I swipe my tongue over my lips, tasting blood. “Are you hurt? Where’s Gage?”
I twist against Bishop’s grip, desperate to stand on my own, but my left arm swings uselessly from the socket.
I try to lift it—a mistake. Something inside my shoulder grinds and pops like wet gravel underfoot.
Acid floods my mouth. My vision whites out for three heartbeats.
When I twitch my fingers, electricity arcs through me, a live wire from collarbone to fingertips.
Bishop’s arms tighten. “Knock it off,” he grunts, muscles bunching as he readjusts.
“Fuck,” I hiss, the word escaping through teeth clamped so tight my jaw aches.
Bishop’s jaw clenches. “You’re alright.” The words land like commands between us. The highway tilts and rights itself, asphalt swimming in my vision.
My tongue feels too thick. “Where—” Each syllable scrapes my throat raw. I crane my neck, scanning the debris field. “Lola?” The name dissolves into a rasp. “Beck—”
I try to swallow but can’t, my mouth dry as sand. “Where—” The word catches like barbed wire in my throat. My neck strains as I twist it, eyes darting across scattered metal and glass glinting in the sun. “Lola? Beck—”
“They’re fine.” His arms tighten around me, like he’s worried I’m going to try to get down again.
Sunlight catches his eyes, shrinking his pupils to black pinpricks.
Through the haze, Lola’s blonde ponytail whips as she lunges for plastic rolls scattered across the shoulder, her fingers clawing at each one.
She moves like a knife—all sharp angles and deadly purpose.
Beckett staggers twenty feet away, face bleached bone-white against the dark asphalt. His throat works, Adam’s apple lurching up and down as he clutches an armful of something against his chest. His knuckles shine white through skin stretched too tight.
Air finally rushes into my chest.
Rafe’s boots crunch over glittering shards as he prowls in widening circles, gun held at eye level.
He pivots with each step, head tilting slightly like he’s tasting the air.
Cruz’s palms press flat against the scorching pavement, dark-blond hair plastered to his scalp.
Something wet and red snakes behind his ear, disappearing into his collar.
His shoulders rise and fall in violent jerks.
Beside him, Gage’s lips move, forming shapes I can’t hear through the high whine filling my head. A crimson bead traces the sharp edge of his jaw before dropping onto white fabric, blooming outward like spilled wine.
Copper floods my mouth. My stomach heaves. “What happened?”
Bishop’s chest rises against my cheek. “Truck flipped. We got hit.”
Hit. The word hangs in the air like smoke.
Thirty feet away, the armored truck lies on its side, metal torn open like a gutted fish.
Rolls of plastic, chips, and equipment glitter across the highway.
My ears still ring. I try to remember the crash—the moment before this chaos—but there’s nothing.
Just Cruz’s laugh, then asphalt against my skin.
“Who?” The word scrapes my throat raw.
A muscle jumps beneath Bishop’s stubble. His breath hisses through flared nostrils. “I don’t know yet.”
“What did they get?” I force the question out through the mounting dread.
His lips peel back from his teeth. “At least one bin.”
My vision swims. There’s a bin just floating out there now. One that’s traceable to us—to Beckett and Lola. My throat closes as if someone’s tightening a fist around it.
“Put me down,” I whisper.
“No.”
“Put me—”
Saliva floods my mouth, and my tongue goes numb at the edges. Something rises from my stomach, burning all the way up. “I’m gonna throw up.”
Bishop mutters something sharp and guttural as he drops to a crouch.
The movement jars my shoulder, sending white-hot pain shooting down to my fingertips.
A sound escapes me—high and tight and strangled—as my boots scrape against rough asphalt.
My knees connect first with a dull thud that vibrates up my thighs.
My palm slaps the pavement, tiny rocks embedding themselves in my skin.
I fold forward, hanging my head between my shoulders, copper-tang of blood mixing with bitter acid at the back of my throat while the black asphalt beneath me seems to rise and fall like ocean swells.
“Fuck,” I whisper. My eyes burn, vision blurring as they always do before I vomit.
Bishop’s shadow eclipses the sun. His fingers find my braid, yanking backward until my scalp stings.
Stubble scrapes my cheek as he leans in close.
“Don’t you fucking dare, Hale.” Each syllable scorches my ear, hard as bullets.
“Keep your shit together. Deep breaths in through your nose. I’m not scraping your vomit off the side of the road, and we’re not leaving even one speck of DNA behind, got it? ”
Something bubbles up my throat—half- laugh, half-retch. I force it back down, feeling every jagged edge as it descends.
The blacktop ripples beneath my palm like water.
“Open your eyes.” His voice scrapes lower, vibrating against my earlobe.
I blink against the sudden light. When had I closed them?
Bishop’s face hovers inches from mine. His eyes are black pools with just a thin ring of color. A streak of crimson cuts across his left cheekbone, darker at the edges where it’s begun to dry. The muscle at the hinge of his jaw jumps once, twice.
His free hand rises between us. His thumb drags rough across my temple, comes away glistening. He stares at the red smear for half a heartbeat before wiping it across his pant leg.
“You don’t get to fall apart here.” His words click out one by one. “We’re not out of the fucking woods yet. You pack that shit in and finish the job. You with me?”
My lungs expand but no oxygen reaches my brain. Acid coats my tongue. Something bubbles up my throat.
“You’re a real asshole sometimes, you know that?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. I fuckin’ know.”
That word—sweetheart—lodges somewhere it shouldn’t. Like a burr trapped in delicate fabric. His gaze drops to my neck where my pulse hammers against skin. The horizon tilts fifteen degrees left, then rights itself. Then tilts again. Yeah, I’m definitely concussed.
Bishop’s mouth twists. “If you’re incapacitated”—the word slithers between his teeth—“my brothers are gonna rush over here, and then we’re all fucked. So one more deep breath.” His eyes narrow to obsidian slits.
My chin jerks up. Air rushes through my nostrils, filling my lungs until my ribs strain against skin. Bleach and sun-baked asphalt coat my tongue. I hold the breath until black spots bloom like spilled ink at the corners of my vision, then release it in a hiss.
The world steadies. Almost.
“There you go,” Bishop mutters. His fingers—callused ridges and rough edges—clamp around my good wrist and yank upward. “On your feet.”
Light detonates behind my eyes. White-hot shrapnel tears through my shoulder. My boot heels scrape concrete as I plant them, knees locked and quivering.
The wind picks up, and for a split second, it sounded like another truck was coming. My heart slams against my ribs. Dust swirls up from the shoulder in a mini cyclone—the only witness. Blood darkens to rust beneath the merciless sun. Tire tracks spell our confession in the dirt.
We’re on borrowed time.
Bishop spins, barking orders. “Gage! Bleach bomb that truck, now! Cruz—get the blood stains. Every goddamn one.” He jabs a finger at Beckett.
“Stop with the chips and work on the program. Make sure they’re being reserialized.
” His head snaps toward Lola, already in motion. “Faster. Five minutes, and we’re gone.”
His shadow eclipses me, breath scorching my neck. “You. Stay put.”
I wrench away from his grip, stumbling as I bend for a nearby roll split open. My left arm swings dead at my side, useless weight. Each heartbeat sends lightning down to fingertips that no longer feel like mine.
The highway ripples like a mirage. I lock my jaw until the sensation shimmers into something more manageable.
“Fuck,” I whisper. Sweat pearls on my upper lip, one drop sliding into the corner of my mouth—salt and dirt. I hook three more rolls with my good hand, the plastic squeaking against my skin. They hit the bin with hollow thuds. “I’m helping my sister.”
“Fine,” he bites out.
His permission hangs in the air between us. I let it fall.
“Rafe?” Bishop’s shadow hasn’t moved from behind me.
“I know.” Rafe’s shadow stretches long across the road. His gun hand never wavers, the barrel tracking invisible threats across the empty horizon. His head pivots in mechanical sweeps—three seconds on the desert, one second counting heads, three seconds on the desert again.
Lola’s boots kick up dust as she rushes toward me, fingers snatching at scattered rolls, knuckles white. Her jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle jump beneath her skin. “You good?” The words barely escape through her teeth.
“I’m fine.”
“Good.” She whips her head toward Bishop. “It’d go a lot faster if you helped.”
“I am.” Bishop’s shadow stretches across the asphalt as he bends, scooping up rolls in broad sweeps.
I bend for another roll. The horizon tilts, asphalt rippling like black water.
My vision blurs, then snaps back. Each time I straighten, fire licks from my collarbone to fingertips.
Sweat and blood mix on my skin, drying to a gritty paste.
I grit my teeth and keep going, reminding myself that I can do anything for five minutes.
Across the road, Gage’s head jerks up like he heard my thoughts. His throat works once, twice. The bleach bottle in his grip sloshes as he takes three long strides in my direction, sunlight catching on the red streaks across his cheekbone.
Bishop plants himself between us, shoulders squared. “Get your ass back to bleaching. One minute.”
“She’s fucking hurt, Bishop.” Gage’s voice cracks like a whip.
“I’m fine.” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
My shoulder throbs in silent contradiction as I bend for another roll, teeth grinding against the lightning bolt of pain.
Three more rolls clatter into the bin. The sun beats down, each second ticking louder in my skull than my own pulse. Sweat trickles down my spine.
“She’s standing, isn’t she?” Bishop doesn’t turn around.
Gage’s jaw muscle jumps beneath stubbled skin. His knuckles whiten around the industrial sprayer as he pivots back to the truck, the bleach misting out in caustic clouds that catch the sunlight.
Lola’s fingers brush mine as we toss the final rolls into the bin. Bishop slams the lid with a finality.
“We’re out,” Bishop calls out.
Rafe materializes in front of me, one hand at my elbow, the other still gripping his gun. “You’re with me, baby.”
“Rafe.” His name escapes before I can catch it.
Something shifts in his eyes—harder, sharper than before.
My body betrays me, leaning into his steadiness while my brain screams independence.
My pulse quickens as his fingers tighten slightly at my elbow, and I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting copper as heat crawls up my neck.
The contradiction burns: my shoulder screaming in agony while my chest floods with something dangerously close to relief.
Fuck.