Page 59 of Wild Cub

“Dose’em again, and we’ll start shipping them out. Remember what happened last time.” Bandana shoves a guy on the shoulder.

“Yeah, but she was a scrapper. She was fun, unlike your ex, Benedict,” the man laughs.Benedict.Bells ring in my head. Benedict, Benny, the fucker who abused Lucie for years. Fuck, the Falcons. Seriously, how the hell did I get trapped into this? Everything knocks together to finally make sense.

The Falcons. I knew all too well what they did to women like Lucie. The Falcons deal heavily in human trafficking and drugs. Might be time for another round of explanations from Jackson. This is the people that Rawlings was talking about that Sheldon has gotten mixed up with. My heart sinks in my chest.

All I can think about is how I have to save the people in the vans. I notice a few vials of what I assume are drugs to knock out their victims before transport. I calculate plans in my head, running through every scenario I can think of.

“Jackson, do you trust me?” I peer into his eyes. His eyes grow wide with concern, unable to answer. He’s not stupid – he knows what I’m about to do.

“Go outside and shoot off some rounds into the air.” I give him the simplest of instructions. “Then run, and I’ll meet you there.” Jackson starts to protest but I loosen myself out of his grip and scoot closer to the edge of our hiding spot, still in the shadows, waiting for him to comply with my orders.

I keep my eyes on vans; I’m not going down without a fight. The voices get louder as I get closer, waiting for my chance. Jackson must have given in, because the next thing I know, gunfire rings outside the bay and the Falcons scatter like ants showered with water. They race outside toward the sounds, and I quickly snatch up the vials before sprinting for the exit.

Angry voices, practically spitting out insults and threats at this point, reach my ears. My heart’s beating in my throat; I’m only a few feet from the maze of shipping containers. Thank goodness for my memory and sense of direction, because I hear gunfire ricocheting off the containers as I slip into the maze. I’m dodging and weaving at every turn to get back to the truck. I don’t know where Jackson is, but he’s done his job and he’s not my problem anymore.Quit lying to yourself, Bjorn. You are not a job to him anymore and you ain’t over him yet.

I see the truck and fencing, the roar of gunfire still trailing behind me, but the truck lights blind me. I raise my hand to block the blistering light, and see two figures at the doors of the truck, firing back. Jackson must have made it back before me. I’m getting closer and closer to the truck, heart still racing out of my chest, when I feel something ping me in the shoulder. The harsh sting and the pounding of flesh tell me one thing: I’ve been shot.Again.

I gather enough adrenaline to move past the fence and jump into the back seat of the truck. “Jackson, motherfucker drive!” I yell out, letting them know I’ve made it out.

The pain in my shoulder radiates through me. They fire off a few last rounds before Jackson quickly puts the truck in reverse and guns it out through the gate. We make it quickly onto the highway, and I swear, my heart isn’t going to make it.

The truck rumbles under me as we speed away from the chaos. Thirty minutes on the road and I can’t take it anymore. I lay down on my back with my head resting on the bottom of the window. Pain shoots up my arm and down my back with every bump and hole we hit. I lay down in the backseat, trying my hardest not to pass out again. I don’t know if they realize I was shot, but I can’t take anymore bumps or jolts to the shoulder. It’s like Jackson purposefully hits them.

“Jesus Christ, can you avoid the potholes? Some of us may be injured back here,” I yell from the back. That got his attention. Jackson pulls immediately over to the shoulder and screeches the truck to a stop. Before I even notice he’s gone, he flings my door open in a flash. My head hanging along the opening of the door.

“Can I help you, ya big oaf?” I bend my head back to look at him, his angry face upside down. “I would get up, but I’m coming down from an adrenaline high and I’m pretty sure I’m going to need some pain meds.”

Jackson takes my head and lifts it to make me sit up even more, my back still facing him. I wince at the movement and how it jostles my shoulder. Jackson pushes down my shirt, and I’m suddenly focused on how close he is to me, his heavy breathing on my back. “I’d make a joke right now, but I don’t think it’s a great time,” I softly laugh.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he grits out in response.

I shrug my usable shoulder, wincing when that, too, smacks pain down my side. “I’m sorry, I didn't think it was a good time, as we were all attempting tosurvive. I figured you saw and was making me live with the consequence of my actions,” I retort.

A hint of a growl tells me to shut up before I end up in a grave. “We’ll take you to see DR, but only if you can manage to hang on for the next 45 minutes. You think you can do that, darlin’?”

He adjusts my shirt as I nod, but not before he places his forehead against the back of my head. I feel deep sigh release from his lips. My heart starts to ache in my chest, realizing that maybe this was my true consequence. I’m fighting every fiber of my being begging me to cling to him, to forgive him. I beat off the temptation; it’s not so easy to forgive deep seated pain.

He instructs Greer to jump in the driver seat so he can apply pressure until we get to the compound. Who knew the guy was actually a doctor? Jackson adjusts himself to let me lean back on him with a wadded up towel he found in his truck.

“Lean into me. I know you hate me, Teresa, but I can’t afford to lose you now,” he says softly into my ear. The wound starts to throb and with no pain killer, I need a distraction. Plus, I’m owed a few more details about tonight and why I wasn’t allowed to carve out someone’s heart and eat it for breakfast.

“Alright, Viking, explain what’s going on. What aren’t I seeing?” I ask him, the sentence coming in shallow breaths. Too much movement for a gunshot wound.

“I don’t think now is the right time,” Jackson tries to begin, but I cut him off.

“Spare me the crap. Talk. If anything, distract me from the pain of a bullet lodged in my shoulder.”

I can sense the smirk on his face. “Hm, I have an idea to distract you, and you won’t be able to hit me.”

“You’re not cute,” I respond. “Now, talk.”

“I liked you better passed out on my couch. At least I wouldn’t hear you running your mouth,” he grumbles. I gather enough energy and squash him against the door.

“Fine.” He adjusts himself. “We’ve known for a while that the Falcons have been up to something. We just didn’t know what. Normally, it’s just the normal territorial disputes. It wasn’t until the birthday party that we had any inkling of what they’re up to: trafficking women and using men as sellers in other cities or handlers. We needed an inside person because we didn’t know how they were getting people. Joaquin did more digging and with the hints from Jeremiah, we made the connection. When we found the shipping port, Rawlings figured you needed to see more of the inside so…”

A light bulb pings on in my head. Things finally make sense.

We suddenly hit a pothole, and I take another sharp pain to the shoulder.

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