Page 93 of Taken

“I can’t,” I whisper.

Talon’s hand finds my shoulder, steady and warm. “You can. One step at a time. I’m right behind you.”

I force myself forward, knees liquid, hands clenched on the rope sides. Each step sends the bridge swaying. Far below, water crashes over rocks, the sound rising like the roar of my blood in my ears.

Halfway across, a plank cracks beneath my foot. I lurch sideways, a scream tearing from my throat as I dangle over the abyss, rope burning into my palms.

Talon’s arms lock around me instantly, hauling me against him. “I’ve got you,” he growls, the dragon resonating in his voice again. “Keep moving.”

We make it across, my legs collapsing as soon as we reach solid ground. Behind us, one of the operatives slashes the ropes. The bridge falls, disappearing into darkness.

No going back now.

“Transport’s just beyond the ridge,” Zoe says, checking something on a wrist device. “Three minutes. We need to keep moving.”

Talon hauls me up once more. I lean into him, into his impossible strength and heat, hating my weakness but too exhausted to do anything but accept it.

“Hargen?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“Hanging on,” Talon answers, but the grim set of his jaw tells me more than his words. “You did well with the Shard. Buying us time.”

I say nothing. What would I say? That the power felt good? That for the first time, I was the one controlling it, not the other way around? That deep in my bones, I know the crystal wasn’t meant for their hands but for mine?

We crest the ridge, and below, in a small clearing, a sleek helicopter waits, rotors still, lights dark.

“There’s our ride,” Talon says.

“More Syndicate patrols converging,” an operative calls, checking a tablet. “ETA four minutes.”

“Run!” Zoe orders. “Get him loaded first.”

We half-run, half-slide down the ridge toward the waiting aircraft. My heart thunders, each breath scraping in my throat. The team loads Hargen’s stretcher, his face ghost-white in the dim interior lights.

Talon lifts me bodily into the helicopter, my legs finally giving out completely. I collapse onto a bench seat, the metal cold against my overheated skin. He slides in beside me as the rotors whir to life, drowning all other sounds.

Through the open door, I see muzzle flashes in the trees—the Syndicate closing in. Zoe fires back, covering the last operative as he sprints for the aircraft. Then she’s in, slamming the door shut as bullets ping against the helicopter’s skin.

“Go, go, go!” Talon shouts, and the helicopter lurches upward, the sudden motion sending my stomach into my throat.

We bank sharply, the night forest tilting crazily outside the windows. I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on breathing, on not vomiting, on the feel of Talon’s solid presence beside me. On Hargen’s fading life force pulsing weakly against my consciousness.

“How bad?” I ask when I can speak again, forcing my eyes open to look at Hargen strapped to the stretcher. The medic—a young woman with dark, close-cropped hair—works over him, cutting away his blood-soaked shirt.

“Bad,” she answers without looking up. “Bullet tore through his liver. He needs blood.”

“Transfusion?” Talon asks.

The medic shakes her head. “Can’t type him in the field. It’s too risky.”

“I know his type.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “O negative.”

The medic glances up, skepticism etched on her face. “You sure?”

“Positive,” I say firmly, too tired to explain what even I don’t fully understand.

She hesitates, then nods. “We have limited O negative on board. It might buy him time, but—”

“He needs more than time,” I say, reaching for the Shard in my pocket. “He needs—”

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