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The safehouse air is thick with the stench of gunpowder and copper. You collapse back against the rough concrete, a hot, sick pulse of pain radiating from your leg. I drop to my knees beside you, my usual easy smile shattered, my hands coming down hard on your shoulder to staunch the flow. 'Hell—just hold on, I'm here.' The click of polished boots echoes; Silas stands over us, arms folded, his gaze a cold assessment. 'Report. How did this occur?' His voice is winter ice. I glare up at him, my palms growing slick. 'Easy,' I warn. He ignores me. 'Did you get a look?' 'No,' you gasp out. I try to force a weak, grinning joke; Silas's jaw locks, a tendon flexing. 'You do not enter a field again without my direct authorization.' 'Right now?' I snap back, voice cracking. 'They're bleeding out…