Teller
The shotgun blastripping through the front door propels Rock and me backward, missing the steps entirely.
I land in the dirt with a punishing thump to my ass that rips the air from my lungs, jars my spine, and numbs my legs.
For a few terrifying seconds, my mind returns to the accident. The afternoon Mariella died. A hard bump against my back tire. Laying down my bike. Mariella’s terrified screams. So much pain. Blood spreading across pavement. Waking up in the hospital and not feeling a fucking thing below my waist.
“T, you whole?” Rock’s question whispers through my fog, pulling me out of the flashback.
I’m finally able to draw in a great, big, greedy gulp of air.
Beads of sweat roll down the sides of my face. The sting in my side doesn’t increase. I take a few more slow breaths. Wiggle my toes and bend my bad leg. The burning in my side feels more annoying than life-threatening. I’ve had enough injuries over the years to recognize the difference.
“I think so,” I finally answer. “You?”
“Yeah.”
I groan as I sit up. My fingers stray to the dagger of fire in my side and come away wet. Not enough blood to indicate anything vital has been hit. I shake my bum leg. Hitting the ground seems to have rocked my system more than whatever pierced my flesh. My probing fingers graze something sharp stuck right above the waistband of my pants and underneath the edge of my Kevlar vest. I yank, wincing at the increased burn as I slowly pull out whatever embedded itself in my flesh.
I stare at the long, thick, bloody splinter. A chunk of door. That’s it? I breathe a sigh of relief. Not a bullet.
Rock crouches next to me, placing his back toward the trailer, protecting me like a human shield. “Are you bleeding?” he asks a shade louder than necessary given our situation.
“Just a chunk of their cheap-ass door.” The pain is annoying but tolerable and seems to be subsiding after the extraction.
A strong hand wraps around my upper arm and yanks. “Get out of the way in case they come outside,” Murphy hisses in my ear.
Right. Someone shot at us.
Did I hit my head in the fall?
Shaking off the thousand thoughts racing through my mind, I roll to my feet and crab-walk to the side of the trailer, pressing my back against the metal frame.
“You all right?” Murphy asks, probing my bloody side.
“I think I’ll live.” I brush his hands off me. “You just had to make that crack about me getting shot.”
His eyes widen like I slammed my fist into his gut.
“I’m kidding. Relax.” I bump him with my elbow.
“Want some more of that, motherfuckers?” a man screams from inside.
Grinder answers by firing a few shots into the air.
Whoever’s inside steps into the doorway. Just enough to see the tip of the shotgun, not the person holding it.
Click-clack.
Boom!
Pellets hit the dirt, spraying bits and pieces in a cloud.
In the distance—pop!
A bullet whizzes through the air.
There’s a wet thwack and the hard, unmistakable thud of a body hitting the floor.