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“It’s okay.” He gets us to our feet in a burst of strength. “Get the laptop.”
I move somehow, snapping the laptop shut and holding it against my stomach. In a whisper no louder than a breath, Everett gives me instructions. “We’re going to your closet, stay low and stay with me.”
“Why my closet?” I whisper back.
“There are no doors on this room and I swapped your closet doors for bulletproof ones years ago.” I noticed they were heavier after my parents’ funeral and I always chalked it up to grief making everything stand out in starker contrast.
Nope, just bulletproof doors.
Everett pushes me behind him. He clicks a bullet into the chamber, holding his gun at the ready.
Adrenaline courses through me and my fight-or-flight reflex is on high alert. I put my hand on Everett’s back and even through his sweatshirt I can tell every muscle in his body is taut, tense.
We creep down the hall, half-hunched. We pause in the hallway, to the left of my bedroom door. So far nothing seems out of place. When we swing around the doorframe and charge into my room, Everett keeps me pressed up against his back, using his body to shield me. I poke my head out to the side just enough to see the scene. There’s cold air hitting my face. Something’s not right.
We came in too fast.
There’s an intruder in all black with a ski mask on, crouching on the windowsill next to the closet, a puddle of broken glass on the carpet below. Everett startles, caught off-guard. I would scream, but like a horrifying nightmare, my mouth opens and no sound comes out.
The intruder pulls something from a holster and hurls it at Everett. In a glint of moonlight, I see a thin throwing knife, sailing in a clean line towards Everett. I don’t have a chance to react before it sinks straight into Everett’s left shoulder. He shouts, swearing loudly, and drops the gun as he uses his right hand to cradle his left arm.
I crouch down and do my best to frisbee the laptop across the floor, praying it slips right under the bed, out of sight. It slides under the dust ruffle and now I have two hands free.
And then I glance to the side and see the intruder lining me up in their sights, another knife in their hand.
I crouch behind Everett as he slumps forward, grab his gun from where it landed the floor, aim for the intruder’s knee, squint my eyes, and pull the trigger. I can barely hear over the sharp crack of gunfire, but judging by the bellow of agony that follows, I hit my target.
The intruder starts to fall backwards out of the window, then they tap something on their chest and they’re yanked up and out of sight like a puppet on a string.
Everett is breathing hard and I’m in disbelief that what just happened actually happened. I run to the window and try to look out and up to see where the intruder’s gone to. Are they on the roof? Were they dangling from a silent helicopter?
A strong arm wraps around my waist and tugs me backwards out of the window, just in time, barely missing the volley of bullets that rain down.
Everett’s managed to drag me out of the line of fire, one-handed. He just saved my life.
Everett and I are both panting, my heart is pounding, and I feel warmth coming through my sweater. I look to see where it’s coming from, wondering if I’ve been shot, if I’m going numb, not feeling it.
I run to flick on my bedside light and it’s worse than I thought. Everett is leaning against the windowsill, bleeding badly from behind the knife that’s buried in his shoulder. Blood has soaked through his sweatshirt and onto me.
“You okay?” he asks as I run to his side.
“Yeah, I’m good. You need to sit.”
“I’m gonna pass out,” he breathes, leaning hard on me. “Put pressure on it, leave the knife,” he nearly throws up just saying the word. “Call 911.”
“Easy,” I say, wrapping my arm around his torso and bracing my legs to lower him to the floor. I lean him against the wall and run to my closet to grab the nearest piece of fabric. So what if it’s a limited-edition Hermes scarf? I remember enough from high school anatomy and physiology to know this wound needs to stop bleeding or he’s going to lose too much blood.
“Laina,” Everett whispers. He’s so pale in the moonlight. I take the scarf, wrap it around his back and under his armpit and silently thank the injury gods that there’s just enough room for me to cinch it tight between his heart and the knife.
I don’t hold back as I tighten the makeshift tourniquet with all my might and Everett roars out a swear word.
“Just pass out, you’ll feel better,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m getting your phone.”
I reach in the pocket of his joggers and find his phone. I don’t think, I just call. I don’t care how many paparazzi get wind of this, how many gossip papers run this as a front-page story, how many people see or hear us, all I care about is taking care of Everett. He needs immediate medical help.
I leave the phone on speaker as the dispatcher walks me through the timeline. Everett is still conscious, but he’s shaking and I know that’s not a good sign.
“The knife, it had to be a knife,” he says through gritted teeth.
