I pull back just enough to look up at his face. My fingers reach up, gently touching the dark, swollen bruise blooming along his jawline.
"What happened out there?” I ask, my voice shaking. “The feeds went dark... we heard shots... we heard someone shouting… we knew someone was hurt. I thought…"
Locke’s eyes darken further, a dangerous, cold shadow passing over his features as he looks down at me.
"The tail car," Locke says quietly. "Knox had a shooter hiding under a canvas tarp in the pickup bed. When Mayhem blew the gas, the guy stayed down until we broke the cab door. He came out blind, firing a short-barrel twelve-gauge from his hip."
"He hit Bishop," I say. “Through the smoke and everything. Lucky damn shot.”
"He caught Bishop in the leg from ten feet away," Locke says, his jaw
