Page 111 of Claim

Tristan was on the ground, the chair having toppled onto its side and his wrists were still bound to the back rung, keeping him trapped as blood spread beneath him in a dark, soaking bloom.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I was down beside him in a heartbeat, hitting one knee on the concrete hard as I pressed my hand straight to his side. The wound was ugly, torn open, blood hot and slick in my palm.

“No! No, no, no.” My hands started shaking the second I touched him. Richie firmly back in the room and shit fucking scared. But I forced them still as I ripped off the blindfold. “Stay with me, baby. Stay with me.”

Then I yanked my blazer off and jammed it into his wound, packing it tight, keeping pressure constant. The fabric darkened instantly. Too fast. Way too fast.

“Look at me,” I said, low and sharp, right by his ear. “Stay with me.”

His eyes fluttered. “For how long?”

“Forever! Fucking forever, Tricky!”

He tried to focus. But he was half-trapped by the chair, one shoulder pinned awkwardly, the bindings pulling at his wrists. So I shifted closer, wedged my knee against the chair frame to keep it from rolling while I worked on the ties. My fingers were clumsy. Slick with blood. I sawed at the knot, tore at it, breath coming rough as I fought panic and friction and time. It finally gave. His arm slipped free and his weight went with it. I caught him, dragging him towards me, easing him off the chair instead of lifting, rolling him carefully onto his side so he didn’t collapse flat. The chair scraped loudly as I shoved it away with my foot.

Tristan screamed, gasped. Grunted.

“Easy.” I braced him to my chest, keeping pressure locked on his side with my forearm. “I’ve got you.”

He sagged, consciousness flickering like a bad connection.

I hooked an arm under his shoulders and shifted in close, not forcing him upright, using my body instead. Bracing him. Inch by inch, I hauled him back into a sitting position, his spine pressed to my chest, my knee locked behind him to keep him from sliding straight back down.

“Stay awake.” It wasn’t a plea. It was an order. “Stay with me.”

Behind us, Doyle made a noise.

I didn’t look.

That hit had rattled him. Head injuries don’t give second chances. Tristan tried to push himself up, slumped, tried again. And that was it. Spent. I scanned the warehouse fast. Clocked the gun by the door. So I settled Tristan up against a wall, then rushed over, grabbed the piece, came back and somehow got Tristan up. Then I half carried, half dragged him out, bursting open the door for daylight to slam into us.

Tyler stood there, frozen. Eyes wide.

I raised the gun to his face. “Drive. Now. Hospital.”

Tyler scrambled into the driver’s side of his car. And somehow, through everything, on autopilot, I got me and Tristan in the back, putting Tristan’s back to my chest as his head lolled on my shoulder. Sirens howled in the distance. So I slammed the gun forwards until the barrel pressed into the back of Tyler’s skull.

“Drive. Now.”

He did, and the car jerked forwards, tyres screaming as he swung it round and punched the accelerator. Blood soaked through my blazer I had shoved into his wound, warm and relentless. I pressed harder, using my forearm, locking pressure in as my other hand kept the gun trained on Tyler.

Sirens split behind us. Blue lights flashing across the rear window.

“Razor, bruv.” Tyler tried to meet my eyes through the rearview mirror. “It’s the feds.”

“I know what it is.” I pressed the barrel harder. “You don’t slow down. Don’t stop. Get us to the hospital.”

“They’ll ram us—”

“Then you keep driving.” My voice didn’t rise. Didn’t shake. “Because if you don’t, I’ll put a hole in you first.”

Tyler swore and floored it.

The car weaved, clipped a kerb. Tristan groaned, head lolling.