Page 73 of Glass Rose
SEVENTEEN
SOFIA
Through the darkness of the night, the run-down gas station reveals itself piece by piece—canopy, pumps, boarded storefront. Gavin kills the headlights as we approach, rolling the final hundred yards.
Green’s men could still be hunting us, and the last thing we need is to announce our presence with a spotlight. John’s breathing has grown shallower, each inhale a wet, rattling sound that twists my stomach into knots.
I can save him. I have to save him.
“We should be good here.” Gavin scans the surroundings. “For now.”
The SUV rolls to a stop behind the building, hidden from the road. My legs ache as I climb out, muscles stiff from adrenaline and fear. The silence after the engine dies feels absolute, broken only by the distant cry of a very early morning bird who hasn’t gotten the memo that the world’s gone to shit.
I circle to the other side and open the door carefully, preventing John’s slumped form from tumbling out. “Help me with him, please.”
It takes both of us to extract him from the back seat, hisarm slung over Gavin’s shoulders while I support his other side. Blood has soaked through my makeshift pressure bandage.
Gavin kicks in the back door of the gas station, the wood splintering around a rusted lock. Jagged shards crunch beneath our boots as we enter.
“Cozy,” John wheezes. “Five-star accommodations.”
Gavin eases John off his shoulder, lowering him against the wall. “Stay here.”
“You’re going to be fine.” I wrap my arm around John’s waist, supporting his weight as Gavin disappears into the darkness, knife in hand.
“I’m always fine.”
A thud from the back of the store makes me flinch. Then another.
“Gavin?” I call.
“Clear.” He emerges, wiping his bloody forearm on his pants.
“Let’s get him on the counter.” I nod toward the checkout area. “And I need light to work.”
We half-drag, half-carry John across the grimy floor, his boots leaving bloody smears on the linoleum.
“Almost there,” I say.
Almost where? To safety? To death?
The line keeps blurring.
Gavin sweeps merchandise off the counter with one arm, sending beef jerky and cigarette lighters clattering to the floor, before we hoist John onto the surface, his body too light for his size. Or maybe it’s just that he’s lost too much blood.
“Flashlight.” I hold out my hand without looking at Gavin.
The weight of it slaps against my palm. I click it on, positioning it to illuminate John’s shoulder. The makeshift bandage is soaked through, useless now.
“How bad?” John asks.
I peel back the gauze. The bullet entered rather cleanly but tore through muscle and possibly nicked bone. Without proper medical equipment, without antibiotics, without—or even proper training?—
“Sofia.” Gavin’s hand closes around my wrist, steadying the tremor. “Tell me what you need.”
I meet his eyes, finding an unexpected steadiness there. Not hope—Gavin doesn’t deal in hope—but certainty. The absolute conviction that I can do this because I have to.
“Alcohol, if you can find it.” I swallow, forcing my voice to remain calm. It seemed to help Dr. Ch—no, Min-ji. “Fresh bandages. The bullet has gone through, so we have to make sure infection doesn’t set in.”
