Mickey doesn’t move—whether out of pain or instinct, she’s not sure—but his breath stills, and that tells her enough.
“How close?” he murmurs.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifts slightly, angling her body to obscure his from the rearview line of sight while peeking past the side mirror.
“Two blocks out. Black SUV. No headlights at first. They just flicked on. Military?”
“Possibly. Or worse.”
“Oh, good,” she mutters, “because this night wasn’t going off the rails fast enough.”
Mickey tries to sit up but immediately winces, his hand slipping on the blood-slick vinyl of the door.
“Don’t even think about it,” she snaps. “You move like that again, and I’m gonna need duct tape, not gauze.”
“Hot,” he deadpans.
“Shut up.”
She glances at the supplies still scattered on the
