The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(32)

I could feel myself blushing. “Don’t distract me, patient,” I said, with more bravery than I felt.

He made to reply, then swore and swerved as an overturned sand barrel appeared in the truck’s headlights. As we skidded around it into the other lane, I seized the headrest of the passenger’s side with my left hand and hung on for dear life, trying not to crush poor Samuel.

“Sorry,” Viggo said, although the swerve wasn’t his fault at all. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Okay… I need you to lean forward. And… take off your shirt.”

Taking off the filthy t-shirt while he was driving took effort from both of us. I hiked up the back and arranged it so that it was easy for Viggo to yank one hand, then the other, through the short sleeves, then pulled the collar up over his head until the whole thing was bunched around his face and he could pull it off, only blocking his eyes for a second. Then I was peering at the broad, taut muscles of Viggo’s back in the tunnel’s yellow light, running my hands over him gently, trying to find a patch… or an injury.

My fingers found a bump. It wasn’t a patch—just a little lump in the skin, smaller than my thumbnail, with a tiny puckered red mark on one side that had to be the insertion wound. Fury curled tight in my stomach, warring with nerves. I touched the spot, and Viggo growled.

“Viggo,” I said, trying to sound calm and efficient, “it’s under your skin. Henrik gave me a knife. I’m going to have to cut it out.” I didn’t say, With my left hand. In a moving vehicle. While you’re driving it.

He stared straight ahead at the road. “Just make it quick, Violet,” he said tightly. “I’ll be fine.”

I fumbled uselessly with the knife for several seconds, my left hand shaking not only from the unfamiliar motions, but from the thought that I was going to have to cut Viggo’s skin to get the tracker out. I couldn’t avoid hurting him. It was a whole new kind of torture, and I hated it with every fiber of my being.

“How’s it going in there?” Henrik shouted, and I yelled back, “Fine!”

With the bumping of the truck, I had to brace myself against Viggo’s body with my knees, wrapping my right arm under his armpit and hooking it around his shoulder, my left arm crossing his back. I positioned the knife across his skin by the entry wound, but didn’t cut in.

“Violet,” he almost groaned. “There’s trouble up ahead. You have to do it now!”

Adrenaline surging through my veins, I pressed the little knife against Viggo’s skin, wincing as red blossomed there and he sucked in a breath. The truck jolted, and the knife jounced against something hard—I yanked it away from his skin, afraid of slipping, threw the knife on the seat and dug back into the bleeding injury with my fingers, finally pressing out the tiny, blood-covered bead of the tracker.

Viggo made no noises during the whole thing but I could hear him breathing through his teeth. “It’s out!” I cried, and Viggo let out a curse. “Warn the others in the back! There’s the rest of the king’s guard!”

I took one look out the windshield and saw that we were careening toward another set of portable barricade shields. Guardsmen were dragging sand barrels to block off the lanes, a set of gun barrels pointed our way. City lights glowed from the end of the tunnel behind their vehicles… if we could just get past them.

I stuck my head through the small window of the back of the truck, shouting, “They blockaded the other end of the tunnel! Everybody down!” Then I dropped to the passenger’s seat, curling up into a ball as Viggo, shirtless and bleeding, began whipping back and forth to avoid the hail of bullets that showered down on us as we approached. The truck bounced, making a horrifying clunking noise, and I curved my body around my hand in mid-air, landing hard on my side as bullets crashed into the passenger’s door. Thankfully, none had breached the truck’s outer shell. Samuel’s barking was frenzied, and I was still curled up in pain when the sounds of my companions returning fire blasted my ears.

Through the racket, I fervently wished I hadn’t dropped my gun in the back of the truck. Thoughts of Viggo being taken out in the driver’s seat flashed through my mind—but before I could move, the gunfire became unbearably loud, and a wrenching, lurching crunch sent me crashing against the glove compartment. There were shouts and roars, and the engine’s growling grew higher. But it never stopped, and then we were picking up speed again. “Hah!” I heard Viggo grunt from the driver’s seat. Firing stopped for a moment.

Clearly, he’d simply driven through the entire barricade, not caring what was in the way. Clawing my way upright and back to the seat, I looked out the window. I saw that the light outside wasn’t the sickly yellow of the tunnel anymore, but the expanse of the night sky. Streetlights flickered past us on either side, and close-set apartment buildings loomed over the narrow road we’d emerged onto. I pressed my face to the window, trying to look back around the tarp. I could just see the three sleek vehicles that were currently pulling out into the road from the area around the broken blockade to pursue us.

The breath of relief I’d been about to exhale caught in my throat. “Looks like they’re still after us. There are three trucks coming our way.”

Viggo’s response was to gas it, his hands tightening on the wheel. “Where’s that damn tracker?” he demanded, and I realized I was still holding it. I handed it to him, and he rolled down the window a crack, enough to viciously toss the little device out. “Good riddance!” he bellowed.