He’s still thinking of Connor’s eyes when he hears the high-pitched blast of a tranq pistol and feels a sudden sharp pain in his leg, then a second, then a third. His hands, suddenly lead-heavy, fall from the steering wheel, and with his last bit of strength, he forces his head to turn so he can see his attacker. Rising from behind him in the van is Lev, wearing a smile as big as the desert around them. “Tranq’d by your own gun,” Lev says. “How pathetic.”
