35. I Just Saved Your Life #2
“Fucking Christ.” He floors the words, then raises them. “Confirm visual—Darren Smith. He’s up and approaching.”
“Copy. Notifying local PD,” Brooks answers not missing a beat.
Jax spits the rest. “That SUV hit us doing eighty. This was an ambush.”
“Copy. Lethal intent confirmed. Clear to engage. Don’t let him get to her.”
Without hesitation, Jax reaches across, yanks open the glove box, and pulls his backup weapon—a sleek black pistol.
He racks the slide with a sharp metallic clack, kills the safety, and checks the chamber with practiced precision. Even bleeding and broken, he moves like a sniper. Efficient. Controlled.
He presses the weapon into my hands, curling my fingers around the grip. He keeps them there a beat longer, anchoring me.
“Look at me, Melina.”
I do, barely.
“Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire.” He’s calm. Deadly focused.
“Aim and squeeze. Center mass. Don’t stop until he’s down.”
Terror ladders up my throat. “What? Jax, I—”
“Just in case,” he says it quiet, a promise and command. “My firing arm’s down. My shot will be shit.”
The gun trembles in my hands. I shake my head. “I can’t—”
His fingers clamp under my chin and lift, forcing my eyes to his. “Yes, you can.” His voice is tight. “I’ll die before I let him near you, but if it comes to that—don’t hesitate. Do you understand me?”
Tears blur my vision. “Yes.”
Brooks cuts in, low and sharp. “You armed her?”
“No choice,” Jax replies, flat.
“Copy. You good to engage?”
Jax adjusts, pain threading every movement, but his resolve is steel. “One arm. Still lethal. Engaging.”
Brooks’s tone shifts. “I’m staying on the line with you, Melina.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
Jax turns toward the door, shifting. He tries the handle again—yanks twice. Jammed.
A sharp curse slips between clenched teeth as he slams his good shoulder into the frame. The thud is dull. Useless.
His left arm dangles, lifeless. He sags for half a second, then raises his head, gaze cutting to the passenger door. It’s pinned against the tree. No way out that way.
He looks at me—blood in his lashes, jaw clenched, vision barely holding—but his eyes are clear. Locked.
“Cover your face,” he says.
“What?”
“I’m going through the windshield.”
My breath catches. “Jax—”
“Now.”
I duck, shielding my head with both arms as Jax shifts in his seat, lifts his good leg, and kicks. The windshield is already spider-webbed from impact—fractured but holding. One more brutal kick makes the center buckle, then it bursts outward with a sharp splintering crack.
He turns to me, and for a heartbeat, everything else fades away—Darren, the wreckage, the blood between us. It’s just him and me, and the thing he’s not saying out loud.
Then, without hesitation, he leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. Not soft. Not lingering. Just final. A promise and a goodbye, wrapped in a single breath.
He doesn’t wait. He grits his teeth and reaches across his chest to unclip the holster on his left. His fingers close on the grip, slow and clumsy, his dominant arm hanging useless,
Weapon in hand, he braces and forces himself through the shattered windshield with a guttural sound. His battered body drags forward, every movement stiff with pain and sheer will.
Brooks cuts in, calm but direct. “You’re my eyes, Melina. Tell me everything you see.”
Across the road, Darren stumbles. He's bleeding but keeps moving as if he doesn't notice. Step after step, steady and unhurried. Then I see it.
“He’s got a knife,” I breathe, voice catching in my throat. “A long kitchen blade.”
“Copy. Distance?”
“Thirty feet. Maybe less. He’s coming straight for me.” My lungs lock. “He’s not even looking at Jax.”
My pulse slams. He isn’t posturing, isn’t threatening. He’s hunting.
Jax doesn’t hesitate. He drops hard, off balance and limping, but moving. Deadly. Because I’m still here, and he isn’t going down without a fight.
He steps into Darren’s path, cutting him off with calm, lethal precision.
“You really brought a knife to a gunfight?” Jax says, low and razor-sharp.
Darren tilts his head. “This isn’t for you,” he sneers. “You were supposed to be dead.”
Jax goes still, his whole frame tight with hardly contained fury. From behind, I see the muscles in his neck cord, the line of his back rigid. “Guess your plan’s falling apart.”
He raises the gun with his non-dominant hand. The sight wavers, but he forces it steady.
Darren’s gaze rakes over him—his lopsided stance, his shoulder sagging at a wrong angle. A slow, mocking smirk twists his mouth.
“Doesn’t look like you’ll land much with one arm barely hanging on.”
“Try me, motherfucker.”
The shot cracks. It hits wide into the crumpled SUV with a metallic thud. Darren doesn’t flinch, eyes lit with rage.
“He missed,” I whisper, breath hitching. “Oh God—Brooks, he missed.”
“He’ll adjust. How close?”
“Twenty feet. He’s not stopping.”
Jax resets his stance and fires again. This one lands.
Darren staggers, a grunt tearing from his chest as the round slams into his shoulder. He clutches the wound, but stays on his feet.
“He hit him!” I gasp. “One to the shoulder. He’s still coming.”
Brooks doesn’t miss a beat. “Stay low. Don’t engage unless you have to. Jax will hold him.”
But Darren doesn’t slow. If anything, it fuels him. He lunges, slamming into Jax before he can fire again. They hit the pavement hard, a violent tangle of limbs and bone. The gun skids across the asphalt, spinning out of reach.
“He lost the gun.” I gasp.
“What’s his position?” Brooks presses. “Can he reach it?”
“No. It’s too far.”
Jax rolls, barely dodging a kick aimed at his ribs. His hand scrapes against the ground as he forces himself upright, every motion strained.
Darren lunges again—
“Come on,” Brooks urges. “Talk to me, Melina. What’s happening?”
Jax twists, catches Darren’s arm, and yanks him forward. The move is fast, fluid, instinctive. Darren stumbles, boots sliding along the pavement.
“They’re fighting.”
“Can you see the knife?”
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t see it. I think he lost it.”
He slams his elbow into Darren’s side, then drives the heel of his palm up under his chin with a sickening crack. Blood sprays from Darren’s nose. He stumbles—only for a moment.
Jax moves to follow through, swinging low for his leg, but Darren recovers too fast. He twists and smashes a fist into Jax’s ribcage.
The blow lands with a brutal thud.
“He took a hit to the ribs,” I gasp. “Left side.”
“Stay focused,” Brooks says, steady and firm. “Jax knows what he’s doing. He’s buying you time.”
Jax folds, a harsh sound tearing from his mouth. He sways, unsteady.
Darren doesn’t give him a second. He hammers a blow to Jax’s jaw. His head snaps to the side, but he stays up. He steps back in, thrusts his elbow into Darren’s throat.
It still isn’t enough. Jax is running on empty—I see it in his face, the falter of his stance.
Darren plants his feet and throws a punch into Jax’s chest, just below the sternum.
Jax buckles. The breath leaves him, sharp and broken. His legs wobble. His grip slips.
“Jax!” I cry, panic clawing up my spine. “Brooks—he won’t stay on his feet much longer.”
Darren targets the weakness—kicking his boot into Jax’s injured leg. He crumples, arm clutched to his side, breath uneven.
My throat locks. “Jax is down.”
“Stay in the truck. If you have to use that weapon—do it.” Brooks’s voice is razor edged, stripped to pure mission focus.
That’s when I see it.
The gun.
Lying a few feet away on the ground.
Jax sees it the same instant Darren does. They move as one.
“Oh God—Brooks,” I gasp. “They’re both going for the gun.”
“Fuck. Who’s closer?”
“I can’t tell. They moved at the same time.”
“Keep eyes on them. You’re doing great, Melina.”
Jax drags himself forward, teeth clenched, every movement wracked with pain. Darren pounces, bloodied and enraged, rushing for the weapon with a savage burst of speed.
Jax’s fingertips brush against cold metal, but Darren’s hand clamps down first.
And just like that—the gun is his.
Jax scrambles to his feet, unstable but upright. A shot cracks through the air, sharp and sudden. The bullet slams into him, jolting his body like a live current. His injured leg buckles first, dropping him hard to both knees.
He stays there for a beat, chest heaving, arms shaking, breath ragged.
“Jax!” I scream, the name ripping from my throat.
Brooks cuts through the chaos. “Contact. I need eyes—who fired?”
Jax grips his abdomen, blood soaking through his shirt, and spilling between his fingers as he fights to hold himself together.
“Jax is hit. Lower left side.” My voice is barely audible.
His strength gives out. He pitches forward, right arm swinging out for balance, but there’s nothing left to steady him. He crashes to the pavement.
“Stay in the truck, Melina. Do not engage unless you have to.”
Then I see him. Darren, looming over Jax with the gun raised.
“Melina, are you still with me? You stay in that truck!” Brooks snaps.
Jax lies motionless, blood pooling beneath him. His body is twisted, one arm pinned at an unnatural angle. The barrel doesn’t waver. Darren could end it right now.
“I can’t… I won’t let him die alone. If I don’t make it, tell my children I love them. Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them I fought.”
“Melina, do not move! Do you hear me? Hold your position!” Brooks’ voice is tight with command.
It’s too late. I’m already moving.
Glass grinds beneath my palms as I crawl to the shattered windshield. Every inhale feels like fire in my ribs, but I keep going. I swing a leg over the dash, then the other, skin scraping against the jagged pieces.
Warm air hits my face, thick and stifling. I drop from the hood, knees slamming on the ground. I run towards them, toward the blood, the wreckage, and the man who never stopped fighting for me.
My best friend, who’s bleeding out in the street.
I skid to a stop a few feet away, lungs heaving. The pistol feels heavy, too real. I take a deep ragged breath to steady the panic. Then I scream, “Darren!”
He spins, startled by the sound. His eyes snap to me. I don’t hesitate. I raise the weapon and level it at his chest. My hands shake so badly the sight swims, but I secure my grip and plant my feet.
He freezes, and for a beat, he stares—like he can’t decide whether I’m bluffing or about to finish him.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“If you pull that trigger,” I say, tone lethal, “I swear on my life it will be the last thing you ever do.”
Sirens wail in the distance. Red and blue sweeps through the trees and flicker across twisted metal, shattered glass, and blood-slick pavement. Neither of us moves.
His jaw flexes as he looks down at Jax, thumb riding the trigger.
Then I hear Jax. His voice is low and frayed, but it anchors me.
“Melina.”
He lifts his head with effort. Pain pulls at his features. His eyes find mine and pin me there, cutting through the fear with quiet urgency and trust.
“Take the shot.”
I shift my hold and adjust my stance. Then I lower the aim just enough. My finger tightens on the trigger. I fire.
The round slams into the road at Darren’s feet in an explosion of dirt and asphalt. He flinches.
I step forward, shoulders squared, and lift the weapon higher.
“I just saved your life,” I sneer. “The next one goes in your head.”
For the first time, he hesitates. His facade slips. Not fear exactly, uncertainty.
Sirens swell, tires screeching closer. Then he turns and disappears into the woods, fast and silent, leaving only the wreckage behind.
The second he’s gone, I run. My legs wobble. My lungs burn. My heart hammers like it’s trying to tear free from my ribs.
All I see is him, sprawled on his back and barely moving. His fingers slip against blood-slick fabric as he fights to slow the bleeding.
I drop to my knees beside him, pavement scraping my skin. My hands hover, trembling, desperate to help but terrified I’ll make it worse.
“Jax!” My voice cracks, raw and splintered. “Hey—hey, look at me. Stay with me, okay? Just stay with me.”
His eyelids flutter. When his gaze finds me, a tiny flicker passes at the corner of his mouth. He's still trying to reassure me.
I force pressure down. “Hold on. I’ve got you.”
“Get back in the truck,” he rasps, the sound thin and slurred. “He could still be out there.”
I shake my head, a sob tearing free. “I’m not leaving you.”
Blood beads along my fingers, wet and fast. His skin is cold and clammy, pale under the sweat. He trembles beneath my touch, breath ragged and shallow. He’s crashing, and I’m helpless.
I do the only thing I can. I rip off my shirt and push it hard into the wound, driving my palms down until the fabric soaks through. I try to keep him here with nothing but cotton and sheer desperation.
His eyes flick to the motion. Even now, even like this, he finds a grin that’s half-heat and half-ache. “Really, ballerina,” he says, frayed. “I had to get shot for you to take your shirt off?”
A broken, breathless laugh escapes me. “Shut up, Jax.”
He shudders and tries to speak. His mouth moves but nothing comes out. I lean in. “I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m right here.”
His throat bobs with effort. His stare pins me, and I see everything. Panic. Regret. Frustration. Love.
I kiss his forehead, letting my lips linger. It anchors us both in something real and alive.
He forces the words out, breath catching between each one. “These past few weeks have been the best of my life.”
Tears stream down my face. “Don’t you do that. Don’t you give up.”
He’s slipping. His grip loosens. His body goes slack.
He swallows, speech barely audible. “Tell my mom… I’m sorry.”
Then stillness.
“No. No, no, no.” I press harder, trying to force life back into him. “Jax! Wake up! Please… you can’t leave me.”
I fold over him, hands slick with crimson, chest heaving. Tears continue to streak my cheeks, hot and endless.
The world narrows to this—his blood on my skin, his weight beneath me, each breath a small, brutal fight.
“Don’t you dare fucking die on me.” My voice breaks. “I need you.”
I press my forehead to his. “Please. Don’t go.”
Sirens scream overhead. I clutch him tighter and pray I haven’t lost him.