Page 73 of Bidding War

Fucking Jonesy shot me in the stomach.

I’d always heard a gunshot wound to the gut is one of the worst ways to die. You don’t necessarily die from the bullet making you bleed out. The way a bullet travels through someone’s core is unpredictable. They don’t go straight through—they ricochet and fragment, tearing through your delicate structures, eviscerating the viscera, and shattering the spine.

At the moment, I almost wish it had hit my spine. I might not feel the pain if my nerves were severed. There should be a word beyond pain for what I feel right now. Agony? Torment? They’re just words for pain, and none of them are adequate for it.

When I can finally take a breath again, I am deafened by the sound of my own gasp. I don’t know if the bullet climbed up into my lungs, but I don’t think so. I’m not breathing blood. Maybe it was just the impact that stole my breath away. Hard to say.

On the exhale, though, somehow, the pain intensifies. It’s not heat I feel in my middle, but the only thing I can think of is it feels like what I imagine lava to feel like. As if each nerve has been twisted into something new, and that new thing only wants your screams.

Blackness takes over, and I don’t want to think of death as a comfort, but right now, it fucking would be. Anything to end this.

But I come to a second later. The sound of wet thuds brought me back around. A distinctive crunch I’ve come to associate with Moss follows. Bones are breaking nearby.

It takes every bit of my waning energy to send the signal to my face to open my eyes. For a moment, I don’t think they’re going to do it, but then my eyes pry open. I have to check on Moss.

When my eyes focus, all I see is Jonesy’s battered face. What’s left of it, anyway. Moses fist slams into it one more time, before he turns the man’s head toward me, forcing him to look at me if he’s still in there. Moss crouches over him and hisses, “You shot Anderson West. You make me do this.” A shot rings out, and Jonesy’s mangled forehead has a hole.

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40

ANDERSON

Jonesy’s eyes are glassy and red. His abused face had swollen in places before he died. Didn’t know you swell that fast. The last time I was in a fight, I didn’t feel it in the moment. I wonder if he felt it when Moss beat the ever-loving shit out of him. Or if he felt it when the bullet entered his face. I didn’t really feel it when his bullet pierced me. It was an impact, not a piercing.

I don’t have answers, and I never will. All I know is, I don’t want that bastard’s face to be the last thing I see in this life.

Moss looks at my body before my face. He snaps his fingers inches in front of my nose. “Anderson!”

I blink up at him, too exhausted to speak.

“Must get you out. This will hurt.” He bends down, scooping me into his arms, and he’s fucking right.

I howl my lungs out in pain.

“Sorry, sorry. But quiet is best.”

Quiet? This man wants quiet? He’s out of his fucking mind!

But he manages to wrap his hand over my mouth as he carts me through the building, and his palm tastes like blood as I do my best to keep the howling to a minimum. Mercifully, the darkness floods in again when fresh air hits me.

When I wake, it’s because something is laid over me. I’m in the rear of a vehicle—probably Mosses SUV. I push against the shroud. It’s one of the tarps he keeps in the back.

“Need to keep you covered,” Moss grunts. “Cannot let others see.”

But right now, it feels like death is coming to swallow me. I peel back the top so I can see and breathe. Shouldn’t have done that.

For the first time since I’ve known the man, Moss looks terrified. He’s pale. Paler than usual, anyway. His lips are tight, and those cold, dead eyes of his host sprays of wrinkles at the corners. “Okay. Like this, then.”

“Where … ” but the word trails off in my mouth and my mind, and the black rolls in again.

When I come to, we’re moving. Every bump and turn sizzles pain through me. A scream erupts out of me, and I can’t stop it.

Mosses voice is distant from me. Of course it is, he’s driving. “You wake. This is good sign.”

“Hospital,” I plead.

“Hospital … it is not the right place for you.”

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