The impact came from the left flank unexpectedly, brutally, like a hammer hitting glass. The Mayans plowed their SUV into the side of the black van you, Opie, Chibs, and Bobby were in. The speed at which they rammed you tore the steel and glass apart.

In an instant, the whole world was chaos: the crash of breaking bodywork, the whoosh of shattering windows, the scream of engines, the deafening screech of tires. Up front, Opie jerked the wheel, trying to regain control, but it was too late. The van spun, tossed to the side, bouncing into the air. Your body threw the seatbelt like an anchor the impact to the side shattered your side of the seat. Your head snapped to the side with terrible force. You heard a crack. Then darkness. When you opened your eyes you didn’t know where you were.

You felt heat on your face, sticky and thick. Blood. It was in your mouth, in your eyes, on your hands. Your head was pounding like someone was stabbing you in the skull. With every blink, your vision blurred and sharpened, like your body was trying to figure out if you were still alive. Every breath burned your chest, like you were sucking in fire. You lay in the crumpled interior of the van, partially crushed by a section of the seat. Your arm hung limply broken or dislocated. Your knee throbbed with pain. You couldn’t move an inch without feeling dizzy and a sharp pain shooting through your spine.

Bobby sat in the back, unconscious, his head split open at the temple, his bloody chin resting against his ribcage. Chibs tried to get up, but his side was cut open blood seeping through his shirt. He cursed, trapped between the steering wheel and the door. And then engines. Motorcycles. The familiar sound. Clay, Tig, and Jax crashed onto the stage, braking so hard that the tires screamed on the asphalt. When they got off their bikes, everything happened at once: Jax, gun in hand, went after the fleeing Mayan SUV.

Tig rushed to Bobby and Chibs, checking to see if they were breathing. Clay ran straight to you. He threw open the bent door with such force that the metal creaked like leather being torn by claws. He rushed inside and almost immediately fell to his knees beside you. He grabbed your face with both hands rough, heavy, grimy from the asphalt. He touched your cheek, wiped away the blood, sought your gaze.

“Open your eyes,” he said sharply. “Come on, don’t give a damn, open your eyes.”

Your eyes were blurry. You could feel his hands shaking as they moved to the back of your neck, then your throat checking for a pulse. When he felt it under his fingers, he exhaled forcefully through his nose, as if holding back rage. He began to carefully release you, unbuckling your seat belt.

His hands were everywhere, checking for fractures, for bleeding, for pressure on your lungs. He was careful but firm, as always.