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AR-15s.Come the fuck on.

I’m outnumbered. Only chance is to attack first and level the odds. I pull out my Glock—laughable against their automatic rifles, but I need precision over firepower. A living dog trumps a dead lion.

Chamber check: full rounds.

I dive under the pick up, hot gravel scorching my skin as I press flat against the ground. I have split seconds to time a kill shot. I’ve done this dozens of times, but never with my concentration this shot. And never driven by something as foreign as the fear of failing.

Because failing means Luna gets taken.

My senses lock onto the vibrations in the asphalt, judging the distance, hoping one of them is slow enough for me to take a clean shot.

At the first glimpse of rubber, I fire.

And fucking pray.

A tire explodes with a sharp crack, rubber shredding. The bike wobbles as the rider fights for control, but it’s too late. He goes down hard, bike skidding across gravel in a shower of sparks. His body tumbles over the handlebars, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

One down.

The odds tick up a notch, but I’ve just given away my position—and ramped up their rage.

Bullets pepper the ground around me, sending gravel flying. I roll out from under the truck and crouch beside it, using the body for cover.

Rounds ricochet off the metal, echoing through the hills and ravine below.

The relentless barrage of gunfire pins me down as the truck shakes with the impact.

Shit.These bastards aren’t giving me any opening to return fire, but I can’t stay put. If I do, they’ll close in on the truck, and it’ll be game over.

The back window shatters.

“Blow them up!” Luna screams from inside.

I’d laugh if I wasn’t one bullet away from the grave.

Another window explodes as more rounds slam through the glass. They’re getting nearer. Bolder.

Suddenly, Luna’s suggestion doesn’t seem so insane.Blow them up.

It’ll cause a god-awful ruckus, but it might just keep us breathing.

I grab the hand grenade from my calf pocket. My teeth yank the pin, and I rise to throw—

And that’s when I catch it: LED headlights slicing through the night.

A car. Barreling straight into our kill zone.Fuck.

I hesitate, and that split second costs me.

One of the bikers circles wide, his bullets slicing through the air. I duck back down, but it’s too late.

White-hot pain explodes in my shoulder, knocking me off balance. The grenade slips from my hand—

I catch it. Barely.

There’s no time to process the blood pouring down my arm or the way my body screams in protest.

There’s a living death in my hand.