Page 30 of Crusher's Illusion

Draft’s van is half on its side, smoking. The tailgate is open, and crates of medical supplies and bottled water spilled like a busted artery.

Killian lies near the ditch, one hand weakly clutching his side, crimson pouring between his fingers. Throttle and Rock are using their shirts to try and staunch the bleeding.

Gunfire must’ve stopped minutes ago, but the ghosts of it linger in the air, smoke, hot metal, the acrid taste of adrenaline.

I slide to a stop, boots hitting gravel before the engine cuts. Nevaeh jumps off right after me, eyes wide, taking in the wreckage.

“Shit,” I mutter, storming toward them. “Where are they?”

Rock stands up, fury in his eyes. “Gone. They hit fast and clean. Knew where we’d be. How we’d be armed. They clipped our tail, took us out, and opened fire when we tried to escape. Killian caught a round to the gut.”

I crouch beside the kid. His lips are blue. Sweat clings to his hairline.

“You stay with me, Prospect,” I order, gripping his shoulder. “You hear me?”

“Y-Yeah… yeah, boss,” he stammers. His voice is weak, but he’s conscious. Flashbacks of Jordan in the same situation play on repeat in my head. He’s not dying. Not tonight.

Honor pulls up in another van seconds later with Rampage and City riding flank on their bikes.

City climbs off his bike fast. “They knew the route. There’s no way they didn’t have a heads-up.”

“That’s twice in one week they’ve beaten us to our own moves,” Rock says darkly. “We got a rat.”

No one argues. The cold, angry silence is louder than any confirmation.

City, Rampage, Hurricane, and I get Killian loaded up in the van.

“I’ll ride with him. Keep him stable.” Neveah climbs in the back without argument, and Honor takes the driver’s seat. Rock starts pacing while glaring at her, but he doesn’t say a word.

I grip her cheek, blood staining my hands. “I’ll see you at the Clubhouse.”

Neveah nods her head but doesn’t say a word. The fear in her gaze cuts me to the core. I slam the door shut before I do something stupid like tell her it’ll be ok or kiss her like I want to.

Once the van is out of sight, I kneel in the gravel beside the blood-soaked patch of grass where Killian had fallen. My gloves are wet from blood, rain, and mud. Hurricane paces, gun still in his hand like he wants a second round.

“Load what’s salvageable,” I bark. “Burn the rest.”

Draft hesitates. “What about the shell casings?”

“Leave ‘em. Let Iron Cross know we left our teeth.”

I pull into the Clubhouse moments behind the van with Rock and City following close. Hurricane and Rampage stayed behind to clean up. We move Killian to the back office off the kitchen for triage. The table’s stained from other nights like this, different blood, same brotherhood.

Killian screams as Doc Emerson presses gauze into the wound. She’s one of ours, ex-Army, steel backbone, nerves like chilled iron.

“You want to pass out, go ahead,” she tells him calmly. “But I’m keeping you alive, kid. Don’t bite me while I do it.”

Nevaeh’s hands are steady with the gauze, but her lip quivers when Killian screams. She bites down on it hard, making blood well. She doesn’t flinch. Just keeps working.

Throttle leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching every move. Rock’s pacing again, while Nevaeah throws a towel soaked in antiseptic into the trash and stands by the counter. Her eyes flicking between the bloody table and the shadows on everyone’s faces. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t run. Just stays in the room like she belongs here. She stepped up when Doc needed her to.

I stand near the door, arms folded, watching everyone and everything.

Killian whimpers as the Doc begins stitching.

“Clean exit,” Doc Emerson mutters. “He’s lucky. Another inch to the left, and he’d be zipped up in a black bag.”

“He’s not lucky,” Rock growls. “He’s breathing because Crusher got there in time.”