You didn’t even have time to buckle your seatbelt. The moment the doors slammed shut, Price was already shifting into gear—his jaw locked tight, eyes fixed ahead, one hand gripping the wheel, the other already soaked in blood that wasn’t his.

The engine roared. Tires screeched and then the world tilted.

Bullets peppered the side of the vehicle like hail. You ducked instinctively, heart hammering as glass cracked beside your face.

Price didn’t flinch.

“Hold on,” he growled, low and guttural—just as he yanked the wheel hard and took a turn that should’ve flipped you both into a ditch.

The road was narrow, the snow slick, and headlights behind you grew closer with every second. You reached for your weapon, and Price didn’t even look—just barked over the roar of the engine, “Gun’s not for decoration. Light ’em up.”

The truck jumped a curb making you curse as you caught some air.

Sirens howled. Gunfire flared in the rearview mirror. Price shifted again, jaw tight, body steady and built for this kind of madness.

“Still with me, love?” he asked, a look in his eyes saying he’d get you out alive. Even if the rest of the world burned behind you.