Page 93 of Fallen Heir
"Close your eyes," I said to them. "Don't look. Just keep them closed."
Another scream. Another gunshot. Another spray of red.
I didn’t have time to flinch.
This wasn’t a rescue.
It was an execution.
Bruce shifted behind me, barking orders. “Bring me the car,” he snapped, the words rough and clipped, just loud enough to trigger obedience but quiet enough to keep the shadows in the woods guessing. Within seconds, a black SUV barreled toward us,tires skidding in the dirt as it jerked to a halt, shielding us from the chaos unraveling in the clearing.
The back door flung open, and Bruce shoved me forward with such force that I fell hard against the seat, scrambling to right myself. He climbed in right behind me, slamming the door shut.
My fingers fumbled for the handle, tugging uselessly. It wouldn’t open. The door was locked, the mechanism jammed or sealed from inside. Panic clawed at my throat, but I forced it down. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“Your time is over, Savannah,” Bruce growled, and before I could react, the butt of his gun crashed into my face. Pain erupted across my cheekbone, hot and immediate, the metallic tang of blood flooding my mouth as my head snapped sideways from the blow. Stars danced at the edge of my vision, but I didn’t fall back. I held on. Barely.
“This is all your fucking fault,” he snapped again, rage spitting off his words. “Do you have any idea how long it took to build what they’re tearing down out there? How many years I spent finding men like that? Training them, paying them, protecting them?”
I could barely breathe through the pounding in my skull. My jaw throbbed, my ears rang, but I didn’t answer. I didn’t give him anything.
“Fucking drive!” he shouted to the man up front, slamming his fist against the glass between us. The tires spun beneath us as the SUV jolted forward, the world outside blurring into streaks of light and movement. Gravel sprayed against the undercarriage, and we lurched onto the road.
The crash came out of nowhere—violent, shattering, and absolute. A second vehicle slammed into the side of us with such force the entire SUV lifted off the ground. I felt my body whip sideways, crashing into the door, then the ceiling, then back again. I was a ragdoll, weightless and at the mercy of momentum as the vehicle flipped once, twice—maybe more. It was impossible to tell which way was up. The roof crumpled inward, glass exploded inevery direction, and metal screamed as it twisted and collapsed under the pressure.
My head slammed into the window, then the side panel, then something sharp I couldn’t see. Every impact stole another breath, another piece of me. Blood blurred my vision, and something warm trickled down the side of my face. The air inside the SUV turned thick with smoke and dust, the scent of burning rubber and gasoline stinging my nose as we finally came to a stop—upside down, mangled and broken.
Everything was silent, but not peaceful. It was the silence of shock, of a body unsure whether it had survived or simply hadn’t registered death yet.
I lay there twisted in the wreckage, my arms curled protectively over my chest, ribs screaming in protest with every breath. My knees were jammed awkwardly between the seats, my cheek pressed to the shattered window as blood from my scalp dripped onto the roof beneath me.
I didn’t know if Bruce was still alive. I didn’t care.
My limbs trembled as I forced them to move. My fingers flexed, then clawed at the bent frame of the door, trying to make sense of what was real. My lungs burned. My jaw pulsed. My whole body ached, but I was still here. I was still breathing. Still fighting.
The blackness curled at the corners of my vision, tempting, whispering for me to let go.
To close my eyes. To fall back into the quiet.
Muffled voices echoed somewhere outside the SUV—shouts, orders, gunshots—sharp cracks that rippled through the chaos like thunder. But to me, it all sounded underwater. Faint. Detached. I just needed a second. Just a breath. A pause in the storm.
Just a little rest.
And then I heard it.
“Savannah.”
His voice.
Jaxson.
My eyes flew open, heart leaping toward the sound, but my body wouldn’t follow. I tried to move, to lift my head, to call out—but nothing came. My mouth was too dry. My throat raw and cracked. The words were there, stuck inside me, clawing to get free.
Bruce. My eyes darted around.
Empty.
He was gone.
