Page 112 of Breaking His Exile

Evander strode toward Rainey as men converged on the turnout. X, Bear, and Walker came from the east. River, Brandt, and Anson came from the west while a wave of marshal vehicles blockaded the road below.

Mal ran.

He broke from behind the SUV and sprinted for Creed’s motorcycle, the only vehicle still running, the engine ticking over in idle. He made it three steps before a round from the ridge kicked gravel at his feet. He veered, changed direction, and ran for the tree line instead. Another round cracked past him. He flinched but didn’t stop. He hit the timber and disappeared.

Evander reached Rainey and dropped to his knees beside her. “Songbird.”

She looked up at him. Blood on her mouth, blood on her neck, her wrists raw and red where the zip tie had cut through skin. Her eyes were glassy from the blow, but she was still fierce, furious.

“I told you not to come alone,” she said.

“I know.”

“You never listen.”

“I know.” He got his hands under her arms and lifted. She came up with him, her weight against his chest, her boots finding the gravel. She swayed. He held her.

Behind them, a motorcycle fired to life. Creed looked at Evander across fifteen yards of bloodied gravel, then hit the kickstand and sped up the mountain.

Hobs was dead.

Gemma was incapacitated.

And Mal was gone. Vanished into the trees.

Evander could track him. He knew the terrain. He knew the drainages and the game trails and the places a man on foot would go when he was running. He could follow. He could finish it.

He looked at the tree line where Mal had vanished.

He looked at Hobbs on the ground.

He looked down at Rainey. She stood against his chest with her fingers curled into his jacket, and her face turned up to his.

She was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Take me home, Evander,” she whispered.

He bent and lifted her. She made a sound — not protest, not pain, just the exhale of a body that had been braced for too long and was finally, finally being held by someone it trusted. He got her up, one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, and he carried her to his truck. “Come, Tilly.”

His dog—a big, beautiful, terrifying dog—wagged her tail and followed with her muzzle coated in blood and a proud trot in her step.

Behind him, Brandt’s voice. “Clear! North clear! Ghost, status?”

“Ridge clear. One runner, east-northeast, on foot. I’ve got eyes.”

“Track him. Don’t engage alone.”

If Owen “Ghost” Booker had eyes on the man, Mal wasn’t getting away.

Evander reached the truck. He opened the passenger door and set Rainey on the seat, careful of her wrists, careful of her face. She caught his jacket with both hands and held on.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t you dare leave.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You have that look.”

“What look?”