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Picking up her shirt, she folded it in an eight-inch square with the cleanest fabric exposed on one side. She pressed the clean patch down against her midsection — covering all three holes — and held it there while she waited for another wave of nausea to pass.

Her vision narrowed, and she focused on taking slow and steady breaths while gritting her teeth through the pain. Her movements were short and choppy, aligning with the ebbs and flows of her energy. She knew she had lost blood and would be in real trouble if she didn’t get the bleeding stopped.

But the sirens seemed closer.

She unbuckled her belt and pulled on it to remove it from the loops in her pants, letting her holster fall to the ground next to her.

“Motherfucker!” she moaned in pure agony.

With the belt clear, she placed the buckle on top of the folded shirt and pressed it tightly against her abdomen while she forced herself into a seated position with her other hand. Slumped over, she took two deep breaths in between sharp stabs of pain, then reached back to wrap the belt around her and loop it through the buckle.

Clenching her teeth, she cinched down on the belt hard, sending shards of pain through her entire body. She would’ve given anything for the Individual First Aid Kit she always carried in her car, but she knew her training was more than sufficient to make do without it. Her temporary bandage wouldn’t last, but it was better than nothing.

She forced herself to focus on her training and immediately began assessing herself for the most dangerous life-threatening injuries.

Massive hemorrhage? Well, the three new holes in my body probably count.

Airway? I’m breathing. That’s a start.

Respirations? She took several breaths and listened for whistling or bubbling coming from her chest and abdomen that might indicate her lungs were compromised. Nada. So far, so good. The bullets probably hadn’t gone too deep.

Circulation? Aside from the bouts of dizziness and nausea, her heart was still ticking, although it had probably been taxed far more than it ever had before.

Head injury? She reached up and remembered the headbutt to the helmet she had taken just before being shot. It was probably the cause of the wicked headache she had, but other than a small cut and a minor concussion, it wasn’t anything to worry about.

Her self-assessment took less than ten seconds, and she was satisfied that she had treated herself as best as she could. All that was left was to wait for the ambulance to reach her.

Punky pushed herself over to one side and brought her knees up underneath her. She fought through the pain to bring one leg up. And then another. With an arm wrapped tightly around her abdomen — pressing hard against her makeshift dressing — she stood and waited for the dizziness to subside before taking a hesitant step toward the road.

She shuffled by the Ducati that looked mostly intact aside from the road rash it sustained during the crash, and she stopped when she realized that her Challenger was gone.

Bastard.

She bent over and lowered her head, hoping to tighten her grip on the consciousness that was slipping through her fingers.

I need to get to the ambulance.

She pulled out her cell phone and saw the words “No Service” in tiny letters at the top of the screen.

Fucking figures.

Punky shoved the phone back in her pocket and turned slowly back to the Ducati. She wasn’t an experienced rider by any means and would probably only put the nail in her own coffin by getting on the thing, but she didn’t have another choice.

She still needed to get to Jax and warn him about…

Tan Lily.

The thought struck her like a hammer. With her out of the picture, SUBLIME would most likely be on his way to the safe house in Valley Center. And nobody knew he was coming. The fear she felt caused adrenaline to surge into her body and gave her a boost of much needed energy. She was still in severe pain and struggled with every step, but a mask of determination fell over her face as she lifted the heavy bike from its side.

Standing next to it, her stomach twisted in knots. But she lifted a leg and swung it over the bike. She struggled to keep it upright as she lowered her chin to her chest and closed her eyes to fight off another wave of vertigo.

“Come on, Punky!” she yelled at herself.

She opened her eyes and checked to see that the key was turned on before pressing the red start button, listening to the Ducati’s motor turn over before starting. She reached for the throttle and twisted it several times, hearing the throaty growl of the engine. She put the bike into gear and pulled away from the edge of the road, struggling to keep it upright as she turned back toward the park’s entrance.