Page 92 of Bad Luck, Hard Love
“Fucker had a knife. Good news, they don’t have a pilot anymore?”
A fresh volley of gunfire cuts our conversation short. I duck as bullets ping off metal inches from my head. I return fire blindly to buy time.
“Metal room in the back. Cover me!” I shout, already moving toward the back of the hangar.
Ratchet nods, laying down suppressive fire as I sprint between crates, my boots pounding against concrete. The path to Charlotte stretches before me, twenty yards of open space between life and death.
I'm halfway there when the world explodes.
The blast comes from nowhere—a flashbang grenade rolling between us, detonating in a blinding burst that sears my retinas. My ears ring, balance shot to hell as I stumble forward.
“Thor, on your left!”
I swing blindly, firing toward the threat I can't yet see. My vision clears just enough to catch Ratchet lunging toward me, mouth open in a warning I can't hear over the ringing in my ears.
The bullet catches him mid-stride.
One moment he's running, the next he's jerking backward like he's been hit by a truck. Blood erupts from the side of his neck in a crimson spray, arterial and pulsing. His eyes go wide with shock as his hand flies up to stem the flow.
“Ratchet!” The scream tears from my throat as he crumples, legs buckling beneath him.
I lunge for him, catching his body before it hits the ground. Blood soaks my hands, hot and slick as I press against the wound. It pulses between my fingers, his life pumping out with each heartbeat. Too much blood. There's too much fucking blood.
“Stay with me,” I growl, dragging him behind the nearest crate. “Don't you fucking die on me!”
He tries to speak, but only a wet gurgle escapes, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. His hand grips my wrist with surprising strength, and he mouths a single word.Go.
A barrage of gunfire peppers the crate shielding us, wood splintering. I return fire, one arm still cradling Ratchet's head as I try to keep pressure on his wound.
“Hang on. Just fucking hang on.”
Movement flickers at the edge of my vision—shadows detaching from walls, converging on our position. I pivot, emptying my magazine in a wide arc that drops two more Rejects, but they keep coming. Four, five, six figures materializing from the darkness like demons summoned from hell.
I reload with bloody hands, fingers slipping on the magazine. Too slow. The first Reject rounds the crate before I can chamber a round. I lash out with the butt of my rifle, catching him under the chin with a satisfying crunch of bone. He staggers back, but another takes his place immediately.
I tackle this one at the waist, driving him into the concrete. My elbow connects with his temple, dropping him like a stone. I grab his sidearm, whirling to face the next attacker. A bullet grazes my shoulder, another sings past my ear. I return fire, catch one in the chest, but they're swarming now—too many bodies from too many angles.
“Motherfuckers!” I roar, backing up until I feel the concrete pillar behind me. Ratchet lies motionless at my feet, his blood pooling across the floor in an ever-widening circle. I plant myself over his body, determined to go down fighting.
A bullet slams into my vest, the impact like a sledgehammer to the ribs. Another catches my thigh, hot pain lancing up my legas I stagger. I empty the clip, watching two more Rejects fall, but for every one I drop, two more materialize from the shadows.
The gun clicks empty in my hand.
“Drop it,” a voice commands from the darkness. Not just any voice. Ace.
He steps into the light, flanked by four Rejects with weapons trained on my head. His face is split by that same smug grin I want to carve off with a dull knife.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, stopping just out of reach. “If it isn't the mother chapter's favorite attack dog. You know, I expected more of a fight out of you.”
I spit blood onto the concrete, the metallic taste coating my tongue as I stare down the barrel of Ace's gun. “You want a fight? Let's go. Just you and me.”
“Pass.” Ace steps closer, boots crunching on broken glass. “I prefer winning. And from where I'm standing, I've already won. One down. And your tech guy's already half-dead in the office. Not exactly your finest moment, Thor.”
My eyes fall to Ratchet's still form, blood pooling beneath him like spilled ink. The rise and fall of his chest is barely visible—but it's there. He's alive, for now.
“He'll bleed out in minutes,” Ace says, looking the same direction. “Shame. I always liked
Ratchet.” “Fuck you,” I growl, shifting my weight to take pressure off my wounded leg. The bullet's still in there, grinding against bone with every movement.
