Marcus turns back to me, sliding his gun into the waistband of his pants and gripping me by the shoulders. Concern darkens his eyes as his gaze sweeps over me, and I wonder if I bear the marks of our car crash just like he does. The bruise on the side of his head seems to have darkened and expanded as it’s settled in, and I can’t imagine how badly his temples must be throbbing right now.
My body feels jarred and rattled all over, but I can’t pinpoint any specific area of pain—except my lungs, which still burn like fire with every gasping breath. Bile burns my throat, and I feel like I might vomit.
But I nod anyway.
If Marcus says we need to keep running, we keep running.
How many more hours are left now? Four and a half? Can we really run for that long?
I don’t let myself answer that question, instead letting Marcus pull me away from the wall.
“Come on, angel.”
He grabs my hand and tugs me out of the narrow alleyway between buildings, already moving at a jog.
But then his feet suddenly skid against the asphalt, stopping so abruptly I almost slam into him.
A half-second later, I realize why.
Carson stands fifteen feet away from us, near another small passageway between buildings. His gun is aimed at Marcus’s chest.
Marcus’s whole body goes rigid, his hand tightening on mine until it feels like my bones might break.
The man with the ash-brown hair and the smug face is breathing almost as hard as we are. He must’ve been following us for a long time, I realize, probably on the other side of the buildings we ran along, keeping one building between us at all times. Tracking us. Isolating us.
And although he’s winded, it doesn’t make his hand any less steady.
“Fucking finally,” he spits out. Then his lips curve in a leering smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell everyone you ran like a coward.”
Marcus’s jaw clenches. “You’re a fucking asshole, Purcell.”
There’s something in his voice that turns my blood to ice. A heavy knowledge, a recognition that we’re trapped.
My gaze shifts from the man before us to the one beside me, terror rising in my chest. Marcus’s gun is tucked into his waistband, but even if he were still holding it, would it make a difference? Even if he managed to get in a shot at Carson, he wouldn’t be able to do it before Carson shot him first.
And Carson’s not going to negotiate. He’s not going to bargain. He doesn’t want anything from Marcus but his death.
This is a ruthless fucking game, and he’s playing to win.
Carson’s finger tightens on the trigger of his gun. His eyes are hard and focused as he stares at Marcus’s face.
My body moves before I’m even consciously aware of it, my feet stepping forward as if I’ve been inhabited by the ghost of my past self—the girl who should’ve died outside a nightclub two and a half years ago.
None of us expect to live long.
I shift to stand in front of Marcus, and he realizes what I’m doing at almost the same moment I do.
“No, you fucking don’t.”
Fast as lightning, his grip on my hand tightens, and he yanks me back, wrapping his arms around me and spinning us around just as three shots ring out.
Pop pop pop.
I feel the impact of the bullets, just like I did outside that alley years ago. Only this time, they’re not piercing my body.
They’re hitting Marcus.
The force of the gunshots sends us falling forward, our bodies going down together. The asphalt rushes up to meet us, and my temple cracks painfully against it, making dark stars flash before my eyes. Making the world go blurry.