Romance

  Brett&#39;s Perspective
  A heavier barrage of fire raked the truck. The guards were pissed. Sparks flew as bullets struck metal. Suddenly, the passenger gunner jolted, a muffled grunt escaping him. He almost dropped his rifle. The fabric over his right shoulder darkened rapidly with blood.
  &quot;Damn it! Lycotine rounds! Sneaky bastards!&quot; he snarled, his voice tight with pain. That vile, wolf-specific ammunition designed to slow healing and cause agony.
  He immediately tore a strip from his shirt, tying a tight tourniquet above the wound, but his face contorted in pain, his return fire becoming slow and clumsy.
  The driver cursed, trying more erratic maneuvers, but with one gunner nearly out, the pressure skyrocketed. The SUVs closed in, even trying to flank us.
  Despair washed back in.
  Out of the frying pan, into a shooting gallery on wheels?
  Then, a new sound. Engines,

  Aurora &#39;s Perspective
  The roar of the engine felt like it would tear the quiet night apart. Lex drove as if we were in a NASCAR race, every turn threatening to lift the tires off the asphalt. I sat in the passenger seat, fingers digging into the leather, knuckles white.
  In the back, Mother sat ramrod straight, her profile in the fleeting streetlights looking like a marble statue—tense and unyielding. Father held her hand tightly, his silence heavier than any words.
  The hospital&#39;s harsh, sterile lights and the smell of antiseptic hit us like a physical wall.
  We practically ran through the automatic doors into the emergency zone. The hallway was already occupied—Uncle Jacob paced like a caged bear, each heavy step seeming to crack the tiles beneath. Aunt Celena was curled in a cold plastic chair, hands clenched together on her knees, her eyes fixed on some distant point, 

  Brett&#39;s Perspective
  Bullets whined past my ears. One struck a rusted oil drum with a heavy *thump*, throwing up a shower of blinding sparks. A second shot cracked, then a third, ripping apart the night’s false quiet over the sprawling junkyard.
  &quot;Damn it! They&#39;re shooting!&quot; Scarface roared, instinctively dropping lower. These weren&#39;t rubber bullets or tranquilizers. This was live ammo. The real, lethal kind.
  The four of us—well, now effectively three—scrambled like startled rabbits, weaving a desperate zigzag between mounds of scrap, using every piece of junk as cover. But the pursuers clearly didn&#39;t care if we were taken alive. The &quot;dead&quot; option seemed preferred.
  Luka, already unsteady from his injured arm, was just ahead and to my left. After a shot that sounded too close, he grunted, his body jerking forward before he collapsed to one knee.

Brett&#39;s Perspective
  A heavier barrage of fire raked the truck. The guards were pissed. Sparks flew as bullets struck metal. Suddenly, the passenger gunner jolted, a muffled grunt escaping him. He almost dropped his rifle. The fabric over his right shoulder darkened rapidly with blood.
  &quot;Damn it! Lycotine rounds! Sneaky bastards!&quot; he snarled, his voice tight with pain. That vile, wolf-specific ammunition designed to slow healing and cause agony.
  He immediately tore a strip from his shirt, tying a tight tourniquet above the wound, but his face contorted in pain, his return fire becoming slow and clumsy.
  The driver cursed, trying more erratic maneuvers, but with one gunner nearly out, the pressure skyrocketed. The SUVs closed in, even trying to flank us.
  Despair washed back in.
  Out of the frying pan, into a shooting gallery on wheels?
  Then, a new sound. Engines, from the road ahead and to the side. Not one. At least two, approaching fast. Bright lights, c

Chapter 270