Page 72 of Ruthless Moon

The comfort of a mother is something I’ve never felt.

Slowly, reluctantly, I let my fingers curl around hers, taking solace in the unspoken promise to weather this storm together.

I look away again, out the window. I squint through my tears, trying to focus on the landscape. We’re off the road and driving through the forest, straight into the ash trees...again.

Chapter Twenty-Six

We Never Think the Price Will Be Blood

LIAM O’CONNOR

A shock wave throws me around inside the SUV like a pinball. The heat and force are almost unbearable. Bits of debris scatter in all directions. Glass shatters. Metal groans. The scent of gasoline and charred materials singes my nostrils. My lungs gasp for fresh air. My ears are ringing. My vision is blurry.

The door closest to my body is wrenched open. Strong hands grip me, hauling me out of the smoldering wreckage. It takes a moment to recognize them. Jackson, face smeared with soot and eyes aflame with determination, is on my left. Bast, his brows furrowed in concentration and lips mouthing a silent prayer, steadies me on my right.

“We’ve got you, Liam!” I can tell Jackson is shouting, but my hearing is still ringing from the blast and it’s no more than a murmur to my brain.

The world tilts and swirls around me, a surreal blend of fire, smog, and the golden hues of the morning. My senses slowly come back, and I’m able to make out the shocked faces of bystanders, their phones out, capturing the madness of the moment.

Fuck.

“We need to move, now!” Bast urges, his gaze darting to the growing crowd and then to the approaching figures behind the crowd—more of Oliver’s men. They’ll be on us in moments.

With an arm under each of mine, my brothers propel me forward. I try to find my footing, but my brain still feels like it’s swimming. They bear most of my weight, ensuring we keep a steady pace.

Every inhale burns, but I push the pain away, focusing on the rhythm of our synchronized steps. As we turn down a narrow alley, the echo of our frantic footfalls is drowned out by the distant wailing of sirens.

The explosion would have alerted every cop in Ash Hollow. And while the authorities might be an issue, right now, Gallagher’s men are the immediate threat. They know this town better than we do and they’re motivated by a madman to succeed in capturing us at all costs.

The walls of the alley close in, creating a suffocating trap. Oliver’s men seem to materialize from the morning fog, swarming the narrow alleyway. There are so many.

Jackson takes the lead, his fists moving in a blur, his every motion a testament to years of training and combat. He lunges forward, knocking a guard back with a swift elbow strike, quickly following up with a roundhouse kick that sends another crumpling to the ground.

Beside him, Bast moves with lethal grace, parrying and dodging before landing a crushing blow to one of the guards’ midsection.

I join the fray, pushing through my lack of coordination and ringing ears. Past the pain roaring through my body as a result of the explosion. I have no choice. It’s fight or die or be taken. Neither outcome is acceptable.

My movements become fluid, every punch and kick finding its mark. Thank Fate for muscle memory.

A guard lunges at me, but I sidestep, using his momentum to send him crashing into a stack of empty crates. Another attempts to land a blow, but I catch his wrist, twisting it and using my leg to sweep him off his feet.

The sounds in the alley are ugly and raw and primal. Bodies thud against brick. Bones crack. Growls and grunts from all of us—men pushed to their limits.

The three of us move in harmony, as if we’re participants in a deadly dance choreographed just for us. For each we take down, two guards seem to take their fallen comrade’s place. The wave is relentless. Tireless.

I’m trading punches with a particularly persistent guard when a bone-chilling scream pierces the alley. It’s a sound that drills deep, burrowing into the very core of my being, and I know it’s something I’ll never be able to fix.

My heart stops.

Jackson is pinned between two guards, struggling fiercely with the handle of a knife lodged deep in his neck. Blood pours between his fingers.

His assailant twists the blade, severing the spinal column.

My little brother’s eyes glaze over with shock and pain.

“No!” Bast’s voice is a raw, broken sound, echoing my own heart’s shattering. He charges forward, taking down one of the guards with sheer brute force, but Jackson...

Jackson’s arms drop lifelessly to the damp alley ground. His blood stains the concrete and his eyes are empty.

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