Page 30 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

“ W here the fuck did they come from?” Cal barks as he twists around, gun still in hand. He looks out the back window.

“Blue Tahoe.” Cohen swerves again, passing a compact car. “Shit, they’re right on us.”

Another three shots hit the rear windshield, and cracks spiderweb out from each bullet.

“I thought these cars were bulletproof!”

Neither Cal nor Cohen respond—which, honestly—fair.

They’re a little busy at the moment. But in the next moment, another few shots hit the rear glass before the Tahoe accelerates and comes up to my side.

I duck below the line of sight. Cal slides across the bench and rolls the window down, enough to return two quick shots.

He ducks below the glass when they volley back.

His body covers mine, and I can feel the thumping of his heart on my back.

Wind whips through the car as our speed increases.

Cal straightens, one hand still pressed against my spine to hold me down.

I inch my body up, peeking over the glass.

Another car approaches on our left, boxing us in, and the window rolls down. The glint of a barrel appears.

“Cohen! To your left!”

Cohen’s head jerks, and he immediately swerves to hit the newcomers, barely throwing a “Brace yourself” before we make impact with the other car.

If this were a movie, they’d lose traction, spin out, and probably flip a few times, effectively eliminating them as threats.

But this isn’t a fucking movie. There’s barely a dent in the side of their car. All they do is get closer to us.

In the driver’s seat, Cohen is doing what he can, but he can’t seem to ditch them. Fear threatens to drown me, but I shake off the numbness in my fingers and make a split decision.

Ducking up, I push Cohen forward and grab the gun tucked into his waistband.

“ Hey ,” he protests, but the car on our left fires another three shots, and his attention is pulled back to driving.

I slide over to the left side, just in time for Callahan to shout, “Sit the fuck down, Loren! Do not engage, do you hear me? You will not roll that window down.”

More bullets hitting the side of the car cut off his words.

He returns fire with three quick shots and their windshield shatters.

The blue Tahoe speeds up and splinters off, taking the nearest exit.

A new car takes its place. We’re starting to really gain speed on the highway, and Cohen’s panicked gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror.

He must see what Cal can’t. He nods, stepping on the gas and gaining a slight lead in front of the two cars .

I sidle up to the left side of the car and peek out the window. The car on our left seems to have two people in it: a driver and a shooter. I check the gun and find it’s fully loaded with twelve rounds—I’ve got twelve chances to get them off our ass.

Tucking one leg under myself, I roll down the window. Another shot hits the glass, and I flinch. It cracks where the bullet hit, and I roll it down another few inches. The car falls back, then skips around a slower car in the left lane and zooms back up to meet us.

Taking my chance, I fire a shot and hit the glass directly above the driver’s head. A perfect hole splinters the glass, but the windshield doesn’t shatter. The gunman leans out his window and fires back. I barely twist in time to miss the bullet. He fires again, then pulls back inside the car.

“Goddamn it, Loren, stay inside the fucking car!” Cal shouts from his seat across the bench, but another shot brings his attention back to his shooter.

“Worry about your own car, Callahan!”

I turn back to mine and fire another shot, this time just as the passenger leans out the window. It misses by a fraction.

It scares him off, though, and he retreats once more.

I pop back up and fire two quick shots at their front right tire. They hit on target, and the tire deflates. They fall back. Just for good measure, I shoot another three shots into their engine. They stall out completely.

Sweat prickles at my hairline, and my pulse practically jumps out of my skin, but I slide over to Callahan just as he lands a head shot to the driver.

The car loses control, and the gunman tries to grab the wheel, but all it does is send them into a tailspin.

They flip, rolling twice before sliding onto their side and crashing into the median .

Cohen whoops, pumping a fist in the air as he screams, “Get absolutely fucked!”

His infectious laughter fills the car, and I can’t help but join in. Cal glowers, but the slight upturn of his mouth tells me just how relieved he is.

We pull off the next exit, our vehicle littered with dents where the bullets hit, windows splintered and barely hanging on, shattered glass dusting our clothes, the footwells…

but after it all, we survived. Cohen takes the back roads to get home, and I fall into my seat, cheeks hurting from smiling so big.

My head lolls over to look at Cal, who’s already looking my way.

Our eyes meet, and a stutter in my chest takes me by surprise.

My breath hitches, and I fall into his trance.

Seconds pass, neither of us speaking, neither of us daring to be the first to look away.

Then, a sharp inhale, and his gaze snaps to my cheek, and he slides closer, a timid thumb swiping over my cheekbone.

He pulls his thumb back, and I see blood. And a shard of glass.

On instinct, my hand reaches up to cradle my cheek. So that’s why it stings.

“It’s just a scrape,” Cal whispers, wiping his thumb on his trousers and sliding closer.

He crushes me to his chest with a hand cradling the back of my head as his shoulders shake.

“It’s just a scrape, it’s just a scrape.

” His whispered words repeat over and over, as if reminding himself I’m alive, if just a little hurt.

The warmth of his chest and his sandalwood cologne fill me with a sense of peace and security I wasn’t aware I desperately needed.

Cal’s heart thuds under my cheek, and I close my eyes, wrapping my arms around his body as I let myself accept his comfort.

We stay like that for minutes, somber against the low rumble of the car and the gentle breeze flowing through the cracked windows as we drive past the gates of the Keane residence.

Matthias stands waiting in the garage, arms crossed, as he watches us park. His permanent scowl is missing for once, and when Cal opens the door and climbs out, Matthias visibly deflates.

Cal reaches back into the car for me, not letting me go more than a second without his touch guiding me. He tugs me to his side, and when we pass Matthias, he tosses over his shoulder, “My office in twenty. We’re going to see Doc.”

Matthias opens his mouth, likely to argue, but Cal doesn’t stop to listen.

“If it’s just a scratch, Cal. I can clean it and throw a bandage on it. I’ll be fine,” I say.

He doesn’t respond right away, just continues to direct me toward Doc’s office. When we arrive, he barely pauses to knock before we stride in.

Doc looks up from her computer, glasses perched low on her nose. She immediately stands.

She chuckles and raises her glasses to rest on the top of her head. “Twice in a week, Callahan? You should take better care of your wife.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Her teasing tone is lost on Cal, who snaps back. “Do your fucking job, Martha, and never comment on mine again. I pay you to heal. So heal .” He gently pushes me forward, a direct contradiction from the defensive anger seeped in each word, and leaves the room. The door slams shut behind him.

I grimace in apology. “I’m sorry, Doc. It’s been a rough hour. ”

Doc—Martha, apparently—nods in understanding. “No, it’s me who should apologize. I know better than to poke fun at his ability to keep you safe.”

A flurry of butterflies erupts in my belly, but I tamp down the silly emotion. Still, my curiosity gets the best of me. “What do you mean by that?”

Doc approaches with an alcohol pad and swipes it over my cheek. It stings, and I flinch, a hiss escaping between my teeth. Her lips press together in silent apology.

“I started working for the family about nine years ago. Young Callahan used to see me daily for various remedies. Cuts, stitches, bruising, things of that nature.” She dabs ointment on my cheek, smoothing a bandage over the cut and snapping off her gloves to throw them away.

She sits down in her office chair and leans against the back as memories seem to play behind her eyes.

“He had so much anger in him it needed an outlet. Turns out, he’d gone and joined an underground fighting ring at Strikers just to deal out the pain he was feeling inside. ”

An underground fighting ring? At Strikers? How come I’m just now hearing about this?

“Anyway, the excuse he gave me for years was that he was just training so he could protect his kingdom one day. That if one day he had to, he’d be prepared against any threat. Against any enemy.”

I always knew Cal felt the weight of his role more than others might.

It was written into his very DNA. After spending years watching his father—Nolan Keane—attempt to live up to his older brother’s legacy of bloodshed, it was bound to affect young Cal.

We all knew the story: Daniel Keane—the heir to the Keane family and Nolan’s older brother— was involved with Tony Bianchi’s eldest daughter—Mia Bianchi.

The Keane patriarch killed Mia, all to control his son.

Instead, it drove Daniel mad, and he spent the next two years causing more chaos between the families than ever before, solidifying the rivalry in blood and leading to Arthur Keane’s death.

Eventually, Daniel took his own life. Nolan then assumed the role as head of the family until he had a heart attack in the middle of the night, just over eight months ago.

Callahan grew up soaked in the blood of Daniel’s actions, and I always knew he felt a certain responsibility to uphold the divide between our families. It was a lucrative and competitive business, and he played the cards he felt compelled to play.

“When did he stop?” I finally ask.

“Stop?” Doc’s brows pinch, and she shakes her head. “Darling, he’s never stopped. He’s just learned never to lose.”