Page 231 of Cara & Gian: The Guzzi Duet

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

She couldn’t lock in the offices wing when she knew there were people inside that might be able to get out. Not to mention, the lock-in bars were inside the doors, not outside. Because the people within needed to be safe, and keep the bad guys out.

Cara hadn’t meant to, but in her panic, she had clutched her phone the wrong way, and ended the call with the dispatcher. She could hear the shouts of Melinda’s raging husband just a few feet beyond the office wing’s doors when her phone started ringing.

Loudly.

Loud enough for someone to hear behind the doors.

Utter fear sent Cara running for the only safe zone left. The kitchen. Attached to the dining hall, she could get inside, have the doors locked down, wait for the cops, and hope for the fucking best.

She slammed into the back section of the kitchen like a bat out of hell, shouting and waving at the staff to help her get the lock-in bar in place. Her words mostly came out in a jumbled, panicky mess of jerky sentences and orders in the dark space with only the dim emergency lights up above.

Someone seemed to hear her, though.

Or they understood.

They just got the lock-in bar spread at the bottom of the door when the first kick hit it. Then, another round of gunfire sent Cara and the man who had helped her get the bar in place, flying backwards. She stumbled over her own feet, suddenly thankful the doors were metal and could take a bullet or two.

“The other door,” Cara mumbled to the confused, frightened staff working in the kitchen, “get the lock-in bar in the other door!”

A nagging pain started to ache in Cara’s side, but she pressed the heel of her palm against it to soothe it as best she could. Her phone rang once more, and Gian’s number lit up the screen.

Even though every single part of her screamed to pick up the call and hear his voice, because it would calm her like nothing else, Cara didn’t do it. She didn’t want to scare him, or worry him. The situation was … well, bad.

Really fucking bad.

Cara decided to call the emergency line back, just to let them know an update on the situation, and why the call had been ended in the first place.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your—”

“Active shooter at Carolina’s House on the Fifth,” Cara interrupted, keeping an eye on the locked-in door. “I was just on the phone with a dispatcher, and accidentally ended it. We have the housing and dining wings locked in, but the main entrance, bottom floor, and offices are not secure.”

“Units are on route to the scene, and one has already arrived, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

She still didn’t relax.

Not for a minute.

And especially not when the dispatcher said, “We have a confusing report coming in from the first unit, could you clarify the situation? One shooter or two?”

Cara’s brow furrowed. “Just one, why?”

“There are running vehicles outside of the shelter’s main entrance and a witness told police that two men entered the shelter five minutes ago. With weapons visible.”

“This began at least fifteen minutes ago,” Cara whispered.

“Yes, I can see when your first call came in, ma’am.”

Cara wasn’t sure why she felt the need to ask, but the question spilled out anyway. “What are the models of the vehicles outside the shelter that the witness saw the men come in?”

“Um … a Lexus and a Mercedes.”

Gian.