Page 114 of Mason

Blood.

So much fucking blood.

Splattered. Smeared. Painting the van like a horror show.

Bodies lay sprawled near it—limbs twisted, faces slack, eyes empty.

My stomach clenches.

My mind rebels.

Please, God, don’t let that be her.

I kill the engine so fast the car jolts, my door swinging open before the vehicle even settles. My boots hit the ground hard, my body moving on instinct.

My gun is already in my grip, my knuckles bone-white around it.

Behind me, tires screech, engines shutting off, doors flying open. The crew piles out, voices urgent, shouts ringing through the night.

But for one brief moment, before their footsteps hit concrete, before their voices cut through the night, there’s only silence.

Silence.

And the sound of my own ragged breathing.

My pulse is a wild animal, slamming against my ribs, clawing its way up my throat as my eyes scan the area.

Shelby’s nowhere in sight.

But the blood is everywhere.

I don’t think.

I move.

My boots splash through mud and filth as I sprint toward the underpass, the cold air slicing through my skin.

My heart is a war drum, each beat louder, harder, faster as I close the distance.

Please.

Please.

Please.

I round the corner of the van, barely sparing a glance at the two men laying on the ground.

And then, I see her.

And my entire world fucking stops.

She’s lying in the dirt, her body barely visible in the shadows. Blood pools around her, so much fucking blood that I stumble for half a second, my brain refusing to process what I’m seeing.

She’s pale. Too pale.

I drop to my knees, hands shaking as I reach for her, touch her cheek, find her skin ice-cold.

“Shelby.”

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