Then Sinclair’s head turned slightly.
Then he let go.
And ran.
“DAMN IT!”
Burke sprinted forward, Rosie launching ahead of him like a missile.
Burke dropped to his knees beside Scout.
“Scout!” he barked. “Talk to me!”
Scout stayed silent.
Face pale. Eyes half-lidded. Blood soaked his shoulder — high and forward.
Through-shot.
Burke’s hands shook as he checked for a pulse.
Weak.
But there.
“Hey, brother,” he whispered. “You stay with me.”
He keyed his mic.
“Dispatch, deputy down. Gunshot wound. EMS to Sinclair’s address now. Code Three. And where the hell is my backup?”
He had seconds to decide: lock down the scene, or stop the bleeding and go after the man who might still reach Tessa.
Burke clawed at his belt for the trauma pack, fingers clumsy for a heartbeat before muscle memory took over.
“You’re hit high,” he muttered. “Through and through.”
He tore open a pressure bandage one-handed, shoved Scout’s jacket aside, and pressed the pad hard over the front wound.
Scout hissed. Teeth bared.
The pain dragged him back from the edge.
“Stay with me,” Burke snapped, wrapping the bandage tight.
Blood slowed. He cinched it down.
“That’ll hold for a minute.”
A groan scraped out of Scout.
His eyes fluttered.
“Burke…”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
Scout swallowed hard.
