He could only hope that those guys would keep Sinclair alive, that they wouldn’t kill him the first chance they got.
His gut clenched. He pulled over onto the road shoulder, calling Nate.
In the time it took for Nate to answer, Dom’s stomach twisted over and over. He listened out for the sound of an electric car, but there was nothing. Just more silence.
“Dom?” Nate asked. His tinny voice gave Dom scant relief.
“They got him,” Dom said. “We were ambushed.”
Nate swore. “Where are you?”
“At the park. Just down the road, at the first turnout. What do I do?”
“Have you called 911?”
“I’ll get on that.”
“Stay low,” Nate warned. “I’m on my way. But I can’t promise we’ll get him back tonight.”
Dom didn’t know how to deal with that. “Right.”
He pulled the truck further off the road and cut the engine, the better to hide it from sight. Then he called the police, gave them the details, and waited.
He couldn’t help thinking about Sinclair’s words before the car showed up. Sinclair saying maybe they should break up. Sinclair had asked if Dom loved him, and Dom couldn’t give him an answer. Because he’d still been trying to protect his heart. Because it had taken him years and decades to fix it.
Dom still remembered Mal promising he’d be okay. Mal had been all weary and sad, and Dom had made him swear not to leave the house. He’d made Mal all the food he loved, he’d made sure Mal had been comfortable in bed. Then Dom had said I love you, and he’d left for a shift at the station.
Mal must’ve calculated the exact moment he’d wanted to die, because it was only when Dom was on the way home, freshly off-duty, that he’d received the call.
Mal had promised. And he’d been a mess of broken parts at the foot of the building, and Dom had just... frozen. He’d gone into shock.
Over and over, he’d gone back to that moment before he’d left, wondering what he’d done wrong. Whether he should’ve done more, whether he should’ve said something aside from I love you. Then he’d realized that he shouldn’t have fallen in love at all, except that had been so far out of his control by that point.
Dom remembered the grief, he remembered himself shattering, and he’d thought... If Sinclair didn’t know, then maybe it would be fine. Sinclair couldn’t do a damn thing to hurt Dom.
And now this.
He rubbed his face, trying not to think about Sinclair standing between him and the gun. The whole time, Sinclair had been trying to shield Dom with his own fucking body. As though he didn’t matter. As though he could throw his life away, and he thought Dom would be fine with it.
Just like Mal. Dom groaned, trying to shove Sinclair out of his head—except he knew he couldn’t.
If you don’t want to sacrifice the rest of your team, I’ll do it, Sinclair had said that very first day. How had Dom not seen that similarity until now?
Vaguely, Dom heard the steady beat of something approaching—not cars. Not an animal. It was a low mechanical whirring, like... a helicopter. The police?
He started the truck, craning his neck out the window. No searchlight from the helicopter, though. Then the trees rustled, and the sound skimmed over his head, making straight for the parking lot he’d left.
Dom’s heart thumped. He turned the truck around, stepping on the gas. Maybe they’d capture those guys, take them down, and Sinclair would be safe.
He slowed down closer to the parking lot. No gunfire. That was odd. Had the police managed to corner them, somehow? Get them to surrender?
On instinct, he turned off his headlights. So he wouldn’t distract anyone. He pulled into the parking lot, and—
Sinclair had collapsed. He was on some sort of stretcher. They were lifting him into the helicopter. The car doors were all wide open; it was empty.
One of the figures in the distance reloaded the rifle. The others checked the car. Then one of them looked up and spotted Dom’s truck. They must’ve told the guy with the rifle, because he aimed at Dom.
Dom swerved the truck just as a gunshot exploded. A bullet cracked the other side of the windshield—where Dom would’ve been if he hadn’t switched directions.
Sinclair had been right. They would absolutely kill Dom.
Except Dom wasn’t about to let them leave with Sinclair. He stepped on the gas, heading straight for the helicopter. They couldn’t take something that was his. He’d already made a mistake by leaving.
Rage filled his chest; he snarled and accelerated, counting the seconds until they hit the chopper. He was almost there. Sinclair had disappeared into the helicopter—if Dom hit it sideways and just toppled it over...
Three seconds from collision, the helicopter peeled away from the ground. The figures had all climbed in, and the sniper had his muzzle aimed at Dom.
Dom swerved again; another gunshot rang out. This time, a bullet grazed his arm. Dom didn’t care. All he knew was that the helicopter was pulling into the air, taking off, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, blasting the horn. But the helicopter was already disappearing into the night, high up above him. Completely out of reach.
In the distance, sirens wailed. Dom cut the engine, throwing his head back against the seat. They’d taken Sinclair. Sinclair wasn’t conscious—Dom didn’t even know if he was alive.
He ignored the police cars pulling into the parking lot, and the officers that streamed out, their weapons drawn, their red-and-blue lights illuminating the surrounding trees.
By the time they gathered enough resources, they’d have lost track of the helicopter. They wouldn’t have any fucking clue where those bastards had taken Dom’s alpha.
All because Dom had decided to listen to Sinclair, and leave.
Slightly later, after the police had taken Dom’s statement and left him alone, Nate came up, his expression grave. “Thought I
