38
“Something’s wrong.” I sit at what’s supposed to be the finish line, straddling my bike but it’s been too long. “Jake!” I call out to him, and he whips his blond head to look at me with a nod before sauntering over.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“How long was the route?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“Four miles, down to the inch,” he answers without hesitation, his brows pinching together in confusion and concern.
“So where are they?” I ask. They should have come through here by now.
“Once they leave that line it’s martial law, Rafe. You know that. I’m just in charge of the beginning and the end,” he says. “Riggs understood the risk.”
The risk. The reward. The trap in between. Fuck.
I dig my phone out of my pocket calling Birdie. “Get to the garage.”
“Shouldn’t we be here?” she answers.
“No,” I clip. They aren’t here anymore, I want to say, but I don’t want to panic her and I can’t explain how I know. I just do.
“Okay.” She doesn’t question the tone in my voice, she just yells at Murphy before she hangs up the phone.
I shove the helmet over my head; the one that Cress pleaded with me to wear after driving her home from work.
I hate it because it means that I’m giving into the idea of having her back around.
Even with all this bullshit and bloodshed, I’m glad she’s home.
I push down the street, aiming for the highway as Murphy whips out of the exit in front of me with Jesse on his tail. As I whip by, Bowie's stupid pickup truck appears, nearly taking out the cars behind her as she cuts them off with a middle finger out her back window.
I shake my head and push the bike faster, the worry eating away at my resolve as the first droplet of water falls, crashing onto the bare skin of my forearm. I watch Murphy tap his brakes, seeing the same thing I am.
The worst kind of omen.
A thunderstorm.
I throttle the bike and whip past Murphy who picks up speed at the same time all of us rushing back to the garage as fast as we can.
I rip up the driveway praying to find the R35 but there’s no one there and the doubt is rabid.
I cut the engine, climbing off and push the door open, ignoring the vicious sting that echoes across my rib cage.
Murphy skids into the yard seconds later and Birdie is out of the car before it even stops, clearing the threshold before I do, only to find the garage empty. She turns and shrugs, her tiny shoulders relaying her annoyance far better than her mouth ever could.
Bowie, Jet, and Murphy are next with Jesse not far behind on his phone.
“It was taking them too long to finish… I—” I look around at the empty garage. I couldn’t have been wrong.
“Jake said they never did.” He stuffs his phone into his pocket.
“So where did they go?” Murphy asks, panic lacing his tone.
“We’re twenty minutes away now, Rafe. What the fuck is the plan?” Birdie throws her arms out as the lightning crashes across the sky and the thunder follows with a deafening boom.
“—I thought maybe they’d come back—” I turn to look out as the rain starts to pour in thick sheets. “I—”
Another set of wheels blows into the driveway, but doesn’t stop. Jet hauls Bowie back by the collar and Jesse jumps out of the way as the car slides across the concrete floor and smashes roughly into one of the work benches.
“Help me!” Cress screams, stumbling from the driver's seat. Everyone moves in unison. Bowie and Jesse close the door as Murphy surges toward the passenger door with me. Birdie tries to hover over Cress, but she waves her off with bloody hands as we throw the door open.
“Holy shit,” Murphy gasps, his hands moving slower than his mouth. I help him drag Riggs from the seat, hauling him against my chest as Murphy supports his other side with an arm.
“Clear the bench. I need the first aid kit and a bottle of clear liquor.” Cress snaps, her focus tight and clear as she moves through the garage. “I need you to go to the clinic down the street, the one on the edge of the road.” She looks at Birdie, who’s listening as well as she can. “Break in.”
“What?” Birdie's mouth falls open in shock, pausing in her step.
“They’ll have blood on hand. You need to get him as much Type B as you can find.” Cress is already using her teeth to rip through the bottom of Riggs’s shirt.
“Is he breathing?” Murphy panics.
“Yes,” she clips, ripping the shirt up to his throat. “Get this off him.”
I start to tug at the fabric, Murphy helping me roll him over as everyone stands frozen. Blood pools from the gunshot wound in his shoulder, and my eyes widen as Cress throws the balled up scraps of fabric against it.
“I need towels. And gum,” she says to no one in particular, and I hear the sound of Jet’s boots across concrete before it even needs to be repeated. “Bird!” Cress yells at her frozen in her tracks. “Now, please. Before he dies.” Her voice softens to coax the confidence back into all of us.
“Type B!” She darts toward one of the cars.
“Cover your face!” Murphy screams after her and she nods before dipping back into the rain. “What now?”
“Keep pressure on this,” she says to him and he switches places with her hands. “Rafe,” she turns to me. “Where’s your gun?”
“Here?” I pull it out of the back of my jeans with a tight expression on my face. She's stern, quick, focused, but everything she’s saying feels erratic and unfinished.
“Good. Keep it ready. There were two—” she stops as Jet slides back into the garage with a pile of towels.
She hands one to Murphy. A package of peppermint gum hits the bench and, without care, I watch her unwrap a piece with bloody hands and pop it into her mouth before she tucks the wrapper into Riggs’s limp hand.
“Switch,” she demands. He lifts his hands and she changes it out with practiced precision.
“Two drivers. They led us up to a dead end. I don’t think Riggs was supposed to make it out—” She pauses again to dig her phone out of her pocket.
“They’re both dead… Here.” She holds the phone out to Murphy, he stares at it for a second, his hands covered in blood still leaning over the table to try to keep what Riggs has left inside of him.
She sets it on the table, taking over for him and he wipes his hands dry before grabbing it. “There are photos on there!”
“If they’re both dead, why do I have my gun out?” I hiss at her.
“Bowie,” she calls. “Vodka.”
Bowie jogs over to the table, her eyes massive as she ties her blonde hair into a high pony tail. “Where?”
“Here,” Cress points. Bowie cracks the bottle and dumps the clear liquor over the wound and Riggs lurches off the table. Good, he’s alive. “Because there was a third driver and I tried to lose him, but I don’t know if I did.”
“You did really fucking good, Cress,” I tell her, because if it was Riggs, and he could, he would.
“Say that after we keep him alive,” she nods, but there’s a lightness to her eyes that I’ve been searching for.