The side door of the van didn’t just open; it vanished.
The roar of the Remington 870 was a physical blow, a wall of sound that vibrated in my teeth. The slug tore through the locking mechanism and the sheet metal, sending a spray of sparks and jagged steel into the cabin, some pieces hitting my bare chest, filled with adrenaline, I didn't wait for the second shot. I lunged.
I tackled Darian just as he was racking the pump for a second round. We slammed into the gravel lot, the heavy shotgun pinned between us. I gripped the barrel, the hot metal stinging my palms, while Darian’s fingers clawed at my face, his eyes bloodshot with a murderous, protective rage.
"You're dead!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "I'll kill you, Dex!"
He slammed his forehead into my nose. I heard the crunch and felt the warm spray of blood, but I didn't let go. We rolled through the dirt, a mess of limbs and raw fury. I managed to get a hand on the slide of the gun, jamming it so he couldn't chamber another shell. We were locked in a stalemate of raw muscle, our breathing ragged and heavy in the silent industrial park.
Suddenly, a shadow moved from the van.
Charlize didn't run. She stumbled out of the side door, her movements stiff and pained. She saw the shotgun wobbling between us before, spotting a heavy iron tire iron that had fallen out of the van’s tool kit during the blast.
She grabbed it with both hands.
"Charlize, stay back!" Darian wheezed, trying to pin my throat with his forearm.
But she wasn't listening to Darian. She was looking at me. She swung the iron with everything she had left. It caught me square in the ribs with a sickening thud. The world went white. My grip on the shotgun loosened, and Darian ripped the weapon free.
He scrambled back, his boots kicking up a cloud of dust, and leveled the barrel at my chest. I stayed in the dirt, clutching my side, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
"Darian, don't," Charlize whispered, her voice raw. She stepped toward him, putting a hand on the hot barrel of the gun, pushing it down toward the gravel. "Not like this. Don't let him take you too."
Darian was shaking, his finger twitching on the trigger. He looked at the van, with its shag carpet and velvet curtains, now a scarred crime scene, and then back at me.
"Get up," Darian rasped, his voice dropping to a terrifying, cold level. "Get in the back of your van, Dex. Now."
He wasn't calling the cops. Not yet. He pointed the gun at the open door.
"Move," he commanded. "Or I'll finish what the first shot started."
I looked at the two of them, the brother with the gun and the girl with the iron. The power had shifted completely.