Ringing.
Explosion.
Fire.
Everything was black. The smell of ember and char burned his nostrils. His lungs hurt to breathe. The last thing he remembered was Frankie, or at least thinking about her. He’d been talking to Crazy A and then…nothing. He squeezed his eyelids, realizing they were shut, and even that took effort.
“Boss?”
“I think he’s waking up.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“I thought he was waking up then too, shit tits.”
Anteros sat up, pushing faces out of his way. He tried to rub a hand to the back of his neck, but lifting his arm was like lifting lead. He could hear them, but couldn’t see. It was as if everything was too black and also too white.
He blinked again.
“The doctor will be here soon.” Anteros swatted at the voice and tried to stand. Maybe Little O was speaking? It was hard to tell, his ears were ringing so loud.
“Don’t need a fucking doctor. Need to get out of the street.” Was that his voice? It sounded rough and scratchy, like someone who’d been drinking and smoking all night. He stood up, wobbled a bit, eyes adjusting to the stinging.
“Don’t sit up,” someone else said, most likely Pretty Boy. “You’re fucking injured.”
“People will come,” Anteros rasped. “Need to get out of the street.”
“You’re not there anymore,” Little O said. “We got you out, sit down.” He vaguely understood what Little O and Pretty Boy were saying, but his body was still twisted on adrenaline. His blood screamed he was under attack. He had to get out. Get away.
Anteros took another unsteady, painful breath, letting their words settle. They were back at the club, in the room he’d been sleeping in. Little O and Pretty Boy regarded him with nervous faces. He could make out the tall, stout body of Levi behind them. Why the fuck had they brought him back? Crazy A was nowhere to be seen. None of them were injured, but black char marred all of their skin.
“Wait for the doctor,” Pretty Boy explained. “Nikolai went to get him.”
“He should be back soon,” Little O said, looking out the door as if he would appear.
“What happened?” he asked, ignoring them. His shirt had been singed off, chest marred with soot. Blood, new and old, crusted his pectorals and his arms. He tried to remember what had lead to this, but his mind was a fog.
“This guy,” Pretty Boy, reached behind himself and pushed Levi forward. “Saved your life. Came tearing out of the precinct like Hasselhoff and pulled you out while we were still bowled over by the explosion.” Levi stumbled into the front, chagrined. He was covered in soot, small cuts and bruises forming on his cheeks.
“I swear to God,” Anteros growled, rubbing his forehead. “What the fuck happened? Was it a bomb?”
“Oooh.” Pretty Boy dragged the word out like he’d finally gotten the answer to a test question. “Yep, car bomb—big one.”
“Lucky you turned the engine on when you did instead of when we were all in the car,” Little O added. “We’d all be dead.”
“How did it happen?” Anteros pressed. “How was someone able to put a fucking bomb in my car?” They exchanged uncomfortable looks.
“We don’t know,” Pretty Boy said. “Nikolai was watching the car but when we found him, he’d been knocked unconscious. He’s okay now, though.”
Anteros couldn’t help the furious growl that escaped him. It started low in his chest then vibrated through his throat. Gathering all of his energy, he pushed past them.
“Boss wait, if you just let the doctor see you, we can figure this—” The door slammed behind him, shutting out Pretty Boy’s words. Just as the door closed, Nikolai came running down the hall, Dr. Wyatt behind him.
“I got the doctor,” Nikolai said, pointing at the sweaty, graying man clutching a brown leather briefcase like it carried his most valued possessions. Dr. Wyatt was an emissary for The Institute, neither team Lucia nor team Beast. If they’d grabbed him instead of searching for some surgeon they could pay off, they must have thought Anteros didn’t have time to spare.
But he didn’t give a fuck.
“Clearly.” Anteros brushed past them and pounded down the hallway, trying to make sense of what had happened. He had been attacked in broad daylight, in his own goddamn car. Up until then, the war had taken place with soldiers.