We split up into two teams again. Z, Grinder, and Jigsaw circle around the back of the trailer before coming around to the front.
Thump.
I cock my head toward the trailer, waiting for the sound to come again.
The three of us crouch under the windows, putting our backs against the rippled metal siding. On the other side of the front steps, Z, Grinder, and Jigsaw adopt a similar stance. Z points at the trailer in an exaggerated sweep of his arm, then cups his ear. Rock raises his fist to signal he heard it too.
“Carter has to be here,” I whisper. “They probably have someone guarding him.”
Rock nods. “Nice and slow.” He turns toward Murphy. “Stay here.”
Murphy opens his mouth as if he’s about to protest, then closes it.
A fresh dump of adrenaline surges into my blood stream. Tension knots my stomach. The weight of the gun in my hands offers some reassurance.
Rock and I creep onto the rickety boards that constitute the front “porch” of the ramshackle structure. We flank the sides of the door to avoid standing dead center, turning sideways to keep our bodies as thin a target as possible.
Murphy, Z, Grinder, and Jigsaw crouch below the stairs, out of sight.
Rock reaches out and strikes his knuckles against the flimsy door twice.
No answer.
I close my eyes, straining to hear what’s happening on the other side. A shuffling sound. My eyes pop open and I stare at Rock. He cocks his head toward the door.
The click-clack of a shotgun.
Fuck.
A blast punches through the trailer door, sending pellets and splinters exploding outward.
Searing fire slashes across my hip.
“Not again.”
Haven’t I taken enough fucking bullets in my lifetime?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Teller
The shotgun blast ripping through the front door propels Rock and me backward, missing the steps entirely.
I land in the dirt with a punishing thump to my ass that rips the air from my lungs, jars my spine, and numbs my legs.
For a few terrifying seconds, my mind returns to the accident. The afternoon Mariella died. A hard bump against my back tire. Laying down my bike. Mariella’s terrified screams. So much pain. Blood spreading across pavement. Waking up in the hospital and not feeling a fucking thing below my waist.
“T, you whole?” Rock’s question whispers through my fog, pulling me out of the flashback.
I’m finally able to draw in a great, big, greedy gulp of air.
Beads of sweat roll down the sides of my face. The sting in my side doesn’t increase. I take a few more slow breaths. Wiggle my toes and bend my bad leg. The burning in my side feels more annoying than life-threatening. I’ve had enough injuries over the years to recognize the difference.
“I think so,” I finally answer. “You?”
“Yeah.”
I groan as I sit up. My fingers stray to the dagger of fire in my side and come away wet. Not enough blood to indicate anything vital has been hit. I shake my bum leg. Hitting the ground seems to have rocked my system more than whatever pierced my flesh. My probing fingers graze something sharp stuck right above the waistband of my pants and underneath the edge of my Kevlar vest. I yank, wincing at the increased burn as I slowly pull out whatever embedded itself in my flesh.
I stare at the long, thick, bloody splinter. A chunk of door. That’s it? I breathe a sigh of relief. Not a bullet.
Rock crouches next to me, placing his back toward the trailer, protecting me like a human shield. “Are you bleeding?” he asks a shade louder than necessary given our situation.
“Just a chunk of their cheap-ass door.” The pain is annoying but tolerable and seems to be subsiding after the extraction.
A strong hand wraps around my upper arm and yanks. “Get out of the way in case they come outside,” Murphy hisses in my ear.
Right. Someone shot at us.
Did I hit my head in the fall?
Shaking off the thousand thoughts racing through my mind, I roll to my feet and crab-walk to the side of the trailer, pressing my back against the metal frame.
“You all right?” Murphy asks, probing my bloody side.
“I think I’ll live.” I brush his hands off me. “You just had to make that crack about me getting shot.”
His eyes widen like I slammed my fist into his gut.
“I’m kidding. Relax.” I bump him with my elbow.
“Want some more of that, motherfuckers?” a man screams from inside.
Grinder answers by firing a few shots into the air.
Whoever’s inside steps into the doorway. Just enough to see the tip of the shotgun, not the person holding it.
Click-clack.
Boom!
Pellets hit the dirt, spraying bits and pieces in a cloud.
In the distance—pop!
A bullet whizzes through the air.
There’s a wet thwack and the hard, unmistakable thud of a body hitting the floor.
The corners of Rock’s mouth twitch. “Figured Wrath could make that shot.”
There’s no way to know how many people are inside. The six of us stay put, straining to catch any more sounds.
Creak.
Thump-shuffle-thump. Someone banging against a wall? The floor? I can’t quite place the sound.
Muffled talking?
A word that sounds like someone mumbling my name through a mouthful of socks.
I tap Rock’s arm and he nods.
“Carter?” I say just above a whisper.
More muffled noises. Frantic now.
On the other side of the porch, Z wildly waves his arm, then points to the trailer. I nod and stand, wincing at the pain flaring to life in my side.
“Easy,” Rock warns but he doesn’t try to stop me.
Moving a whole lot slower than I’d like, Z and I creep toward the porch. Grinder and Rock stay close to our backs. Z steps inside first. Gun tight to his chest but ready to fire, he sweeps through the trailer. I pull my shotgun in front of me, pointed toward the floor, but fingers at the ready.
“Carter!” I yell.
A muffled yelp responds.
Hope and relief twist together in my chest. Please let that be Carter.
Z and I move toward the sound.
The trailer shakes and groans with our combined weight pounding through it.
I stop at a narrow doorway. My gaze sweeps over the cramped bathroom and lands on Carter. Duct-taped to the drainpipe connecting the sink to the wall, but alive.
Relief floods my system. He’s alive. We found him.
The stupid drainpipe has to be the only sturdy thing in here. Carter’s twisted the tape into a long, thin knot from trying to break free.
Crouching on the filthy tile, I pull out my knife and slice through the tape securing him to the metal.
“You came for me,” Carter rasps as he rips the tape off his mouth. Dried blood lines his temple. Anger quickens my pulse. Cutting off his toe wasn’t enough, they beat him too.
“Of course I did.” I hold out my hand. “Come on. We gotta go.”
His face twists with anguish. “What about Bianca? Is she okay?” He squeezes his eyes shut. “She tried to help. One of them hit her. I was scared they ran her over.”
“She’s okay as far as I know. She called Charlotte and told us what happened.”
He blows out a relieved breath. “Good. I felt so bad—”