He barreled out.
I registered the gun now in his hand a split-second before he fired off a shot.
I staggered back as a white-hot, jarring pain tore through my abdomen.
As I smacked against the wall, slapping my hand to my shirt that was quickly drenching in my own blood, the big motherfucker decked out in all denim came at me.
A shot rang out and I swung my head to see Mason there, his gun cocked.
The target roared and dropped hard, clutching his kneecap with one hand.
But the other… the other still held the gun.
I heard myself yelling to Mason.
But it was too late.
The target fired off a shot and hit Mason in his left arm.
He lost his grip on Colt and smacked back against the wall like me.
But he still had hold of the gun.
Thank fuck, he managed to fire off another shot.
This time, right through the shithead’s skull—a solid kill shot.
“Christ,” I breathed, sliding down the wall as the pain overcame the adrenaline coursing through my system.
As Colt ran to Mason, the latter stared out at me.
I saw him register that dark look in my eyes, reading me well as usual.
Something I vowed in that moment as his disgust became apparent that I would never allow him to do.
Because I saw it in there, the upsetting truth.
We were shattered.
And he’d never, ever look at me the same way again.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the memory and came back to reality.
I took a beat to regain my equilibrium.
Once my breathing had leveled out and I’d gotten my bearings, I realized I’d parked in the lot of a diner.
It was actually the one I’d marked on my GPS to take a break at for a few minutes before I continued on home.
I also didn’t do well driving—or riding—without eating.
It had been several hours since I’d done so, and on no sleep.
Clearly that flashback was a sign that it was wearing on me, weakening me.
Intending to rectify that, I stepped out of the van, locked it, then went to head toward the diner entrance twenty feet away.
The clack of footsteps in the dark had me stilling in my step.