Page 29

Orion

I’m slumped against the cold concrete, the world narrowed to a pinprick of agony in my side. The metallic smell of my own blood chokes me as I fight to stay conscious. Every instinct in me screams to stand, to go after Briar, but my body won’t obey.

I try to raise my head, scanning the shadows where Jason disappeared with her. A hiss of frustration claws its way out of my throat. Briar. My heart pounds with the rage of a cornered animal. She was right there, in my arms. Now she’s gone again, snatched away.

“Let me—go,” I grind out, struggling to push off the floor. My vision wavers.

Gunner’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Easy, Orion.” He’s kneeling at my side, looking me straight in the eyes. “You’re hit bad, man.”

I want to shove him off, want to scream that we can’t waste time here, but he presses me back. Pain lances through my abdomen, stealing my breath. Dark red blossoms across my vest—too far right to be anything but a gut shot. Shit.

Dean and Riggs come tearing around the corner, both wide-eyed when they see me sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath me. Chester’s cage rattles in Gunner’s grip, the poor parrot squawking softly. I blink, hazy, trying to piece together the last seconds. Gunshots, Briar’s scream, her fingers slipping away from mine…

“Orion,” Dean says, crouching and placing a firm hand over the wound. He peels back a corner of my vest. “Damn,” he mutters under his breath. “We need to get him out of here now. Blood’s dark—looks like the liver’s hit.”

A fresh wave of pain steals my voice. My vision flickers, but I force my lips to move. “Briar,” I whisper, throat raw. “They took her.”

“Shh,” Riggs cuts in, pressing a bandage to my side. I hiss at the sting, but he doesn’t let up. “We’ll find her. You have to let us handle this, boss.”

“Delta team’s en route,” Dean adds, voice grim. “We’ll stop the Russians. Right now, we gotta get you medical attention.”

“No,” I protest, trying again to push myself up. Another lance of fire rips through my torso, and I choke on a curse. Damn it. Damn this body for failing me.

“Gunner, help me lift him,” Dean orders. Gunner carefully sets Chester’s cage down, and I catch a glimpse of the bird, trembling, feathers ruffled. The poor thing. Everything has gone to hell.

Gunner and Dean hoist me upright, and my world spins. For a second, I’m floating, my legs useless. Then I’m draped across Riggs’ broad shoulder, Gunner clearing the path ahead. My mind fights the darkness creeping in at the edges. Focus, Orion. Don’t black out.

“Delta’s five minutes out,” Gunner says into his comm. “They’ll finish this. We gotta get Orion gone, stat.”

I clench my jaw, heart pounding in frustration. No. I should be going after Briar, not bleeding out like a rookie.

We leave into a hail of gunfire somewhere in the distance, but all I can do is feel the slick warmth of blood seeping into my clothes. Useless, my mind hisses, fury tangling with desperation. The men hurry me into a waiting SUV, Chester’s cage jammed in the backseat. The door slams, and we screech away.

Dean and Gunner do what they can to stabilize me, talking fast about pressure, blood loss, calling a hospital for immediate trauma support. The words blur together as we lurch around corners. I glimpse the flicker of streetlights, hear the beep of a phone dialing.

“Hang on,” Dean mutters, pressing hard on my side. The pain steals my breath again. “We’re almost there.”

“Briar—” I rasp, forcing my eyelids up. I can’t see anything but the shape of Dean’s face, shadowed in the passing lights.

He doesn’t answer. Damn it. I grab his wrist. “Tell me,” I insist, my voice cracking.

His expression softens, but he stays silent. “Focus on yourself, Orion.”

A curse slips between my teeth, but there’s nothing I can do. My body feels like lead, warmth draining away. I slip in and out of consciousness, snatches of city noise mixing with the roar of my pulse. Stay awake , I order myself, but the darkness is relentless.

The next thing I know, I’m in a hallway that reeks of antiseptic. Florescent lights glare overhead. My vest is gone, replaced by cold air prickling against my skin. Hands grip my limbs, voices shouting. Doctors? I can’t focus enough to see. I blink, and Dean’s face appears, yelling something. Then he’s shoved aside.

“Nine-millimeter gunshot wound, possible liver damage—he’s lost a lot of blood,” someone says, words clipped. A nurse? “Take him straight to OR. Clear the corridor!”

More movement, a gurney rattling over linoleum. My entire side burns like liquid fire. I try to speak, form the word Briar , but only a ragged gasp comes out.

A bright white overhead light blinds me, and my eyelids flutter shut. Don’t pass out , I scream in my head, but I can’t fight the undertow.

When consciousness flares up again, everything is fuzzy—like I’m suspended in warm water. The beep of machines and the hush of medical staff drift by. A nurse leans over me, adjusts an IV, then disappears. I can’t move my arms, or maybe I just don’t have the energy.

“Where—where is she?” I manage, or think I do. My voice is weak, hoarse. No one answers.

Time blurs. I slip under again, only to resurface to find Dean by my bed, the overhead lights dimmed. He’s talking in a low voice on the phone, words like Delta , warehouse , Russians floating by. I groan, trying to grab his attention.

He hushes me gently, stepping closer. “Don’t speak,” he murmurs. “You made it through surgery, but you need rest.”

My heart throbs with panic. No. They need to tell me about Briar. I mouth her name, but Dean just shakes his head. “Rest.”

A flare of agony blooms in my side, and I can’t hold back a hiss. Dean presses a button, and a soothing wave of medication fogs my brain again, dragging me under before I can protest. The world fades to black.

I come to in short bursts: nurses checking tubes, a doctor shining a light in my eyes, the steady beep-beep of monitors. Each time, I try to ask about Briar—if she’s safe, if she got away, if we have any word at all—but no one gives me a straight answer.

“All that matters is you get better,” one nurse says gently, brushing hair from my forehead. “You can’t help anyone if you’re dead.”

Her logic stings. Guilt rakes through me. I shouldn’t be here in a hospital bed. I should be on the streets, hunting down Jason and Heath, tearing the Russians apart until Briar is safe in my arms.

Every time the pain meds drag me under, I dream of Briar’s face—pale, tear-streaked, eyes wide with terror as she disappears behind a veil of gunfire. The nightmares twist into memories of the warehouse, the moment the bullet slammed into me. I jolt awake in a cold sweat, only to find myself anchored to IV lines and monitors. Useless.

I’m going crazy, pinned here, powerless. My entire being thrums with a single need: find Briar. The steady beeping of the monitors can’t drown out my hammering pulse. She’s out there, in danger. I’m stuck here, patched up like a worthless invalid.

I grit my teeth, ignoring the throbbing in my side, vowing that the second I can stand, I’m leaving this place. Bullet hole or not, I’m going to find her. Because if there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s the thought of Briar out there alone, believing I might be dead, while I’m in this bed, chained by tubes and doctors.

Hang on, Briar , I think, my eyelids sliding shut again. I’m coming.