Unwanted Blood (Harper) novel Chapter 80

Chapter 80

I ducked behind a low concrete planter and pressed flat against it. The beams passed over me, missed, kept moving.

Then I heard it, a short, sharp cry from the direction of the treeline.

Colton!

A gunshot cracked through the night.

I broke cover without hesitation and ran toward the sound.

He was on the ground, maybe fifteen metres from the tree line. His left leg was bent wrong, blood spreading dark across his trousers below the knee. He was trying to push himself up, one hand on the grass, the other clutching his thigh.

I hit the ground beside him, grabbed his shoulder, and hauled. “Up. Come on.”

He groaned but got his weight onto his good leg. I wrapped my arm around his chest and dragged him forward, half-carrying, half-pulling, moving as fast as his leg allowed.

Another shot.

The bullet didn’t hit Colton. It hit me.

A searing, sudden burn across my right shoulder. The impact spun me half a step sideways, my knees buckling. Pain exploded, white and total, and for a second I couldn’t breathe.

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I locked my left arm around Colton’s collar, hauled him forward, and shoved him into the dense shadow of a pine cluster.

“Keep moving. Forward. Don’t stop.”

My right arm was useless. Warm and wet blood was already soaking through the fabric, spreading fast. I clamped my left hand over the wound and felt the heat of it pulsing through my fingers.

We weren’t going to make it to the car. Not with Colton’s leg and my shoulder. Not with flashlights converging and boots pounding through the undergrowth behind us.

I leaned back against a tree trunk and listened.

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11:43

Chapter 80

Branches parting. Footsteps. Voices getting closer.

288 Vouchers

I grabbed the radio and tried to call out, but all I got was static. Damn, the trees were blocking the signal.

I looked at Colton. He was pale, jaw clenched, his hand pressed hard against his leg His breathing was shallow. Fast.

I raised my left hand to my shoulder again. Blood was running down my arm now, dripping onto the grass. The wound burned every time I moved.

The footsteps were close. Ten metres. Maybe less.

I braced against the tree. My left hand went to the knife at my belt. It wasn’t going to be enough.

I thought, briefly: This is it.

Then the engine started.

A sudden roar cut through the night from the direction of the dirt road. Headlights flared, sweeping across the yard, blinding-white, cutting through the trees like daylight.

The guards turned. Their flashlights swung toward the noise. Their shouting shifted direction.

Adrian had the sedan. He’d driven it off the road and onto the facility’s rear access track, tyres throwing gravel, lights blazing straight into the faces of the men who’d been closing in on us.

He stopped the car hard, maybe ten metres from where Colton and I were pinned, and threw the rear door open.

“Go!” Colton didn’t need telling twice. He dragged himself off the ground, limping hard, and threw himself into the passenger seat. He slammed the door.

Adrian didn’t wait. He reversed the car, swung the front end, and stopped three paces from my position. The rear door was already open. His good hand gripped the steering wheel. His eyes locked on mine.

“Get in.” I ran, then I threw myself into the back seat and slammed the door.

Adrian hit the accelerator.

The car lurched forward, gravel spraying, the engine climbing hard. Behind us, someone fired. The shots cracked against the rear panel, metal ringing, but the car was already moving too fast. The trees swallowed us. The facility shrank in the distance. The lights faded.

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