Page 59 of Yours on the Canvas

Across the hood, Mack takes a round to his right thigh. He drops hard to one knee, a raw, animalistic curse ripping from his throat as blood pumps through his fingers, pooling black on the wet asphalt.

“Mack!” Callan screams. The sight of Mack going down shatters him. His face drains of color, his hands shaking so badly he nearly drops his rifle as he fires three wild, blind shots into the trees. “Mack, fuck, you’re bleeding out, I need a medic bag!”

“Shut up and shoot, Callan!” Mack snarls, teeth gritted so hard a vein pops in his neck. He forces himself upright, leaning on the van for support.

I push off the door, ignoring the white-hot fire ripping through my shoulder as adrenaline and feral rage take over.

These men are keeping me from my boy.

That is the wrong fucking thing they could do.

“Fuck this shit! I snarl, raising my weapon with my good arm, lock onto the men behind the car doors, and fire three clean, lethal shots through the laminated glass and frame. The glass shatters. Both men slump forward, dead.

To my left, Callan pivots, breathing steady now, panic gone, replaced by cold, sniper-sharp focus.

He steps out from the van, boots planted in the grit, and unleashes controlled bursts toward the trees.

Each shot finds its mark.

Three rhythmic impacts echo through the pines. The men behind the trucks drop one by one, cut down mid-movement.

Silence crashes over us, broken only our ragged breathing, and the steady drip of blood hitting the ground.

“Let’s go,” I pant, vision tunneling at the edges, my left arm dead at my side, gear soaked in my own blood. “We move. Now.”

We pile back into the bullet-riddled van. Mack’s breaths come in shallow, jagged gasps as he clutches his shredded thigh. Callan sits beside him, tears streaking down his face as he tightens a tourniquet, his hands slick with bright red.

I watch as Mack wipes his tears away with his thumb. “Mi Vida, I’m fine.”

Callan nods, and tightens the tourniquet causing Mack to grunt in pain. “Sorry,” Cal huffs, a small smile on his face.

Yeah, that’s another questions for another day. Right now, I need to get to my boy.

I throw the van into gear with my right hand, stomp the gas with a boot soaked in blood, and point the nose toward our pick up point.

Jack is waiting. My dove is hurt, bleeding, alone in a hospital bed.

And I am coming home.

15

Jack

I wake up to a constant beeping noise in the room.

Thinking it’s my alarm, I reach out to turn it off, but my hand hits against something hard.

My eyes snap open, and I realise its a heart monitor.

Dragging my hand over my face, I remember my dad and uncle turning up at Silas’ house, and I hear the monitor increase as the memories flood back in.

The fear hits next. The terror that ripped through me when they threatened Hale and Finn. All I knew was that I had to get to Finn, had to make sure Hale was safe.

I left Silas’ house without shoes, a jacket, nothing. Hell, I hadn’t even locked the door. All I knew was I had to get to Finn, so I just ran.

A knock at the door causes my whole body to jolt. Panic tears through me as I watch the handle turn.

“Jack?”