Page 9 of The Deadly Shallows

“Lower your weapon,” he ordered.

The shooter hesitated.

“Lower your gun,” Noah barked out, his muzzle aimed at the man’s chest.

To his surprise again, the shooter laid down his gun, his hands up, palms out.

Before Noah could take a step forward, the crack of gunfire echoed from behind the shooter, and he flailed down the steps, hitting the ground, gasping for air.

“Entering in sixty,” Deacon said over the comm.

“Roger that. We’ve got five shooters dow—”

Crack, crack.

Searing pain burned through Noah’s thigh. A sixth shooter.

He pivoted swiftly and shot, hitting the sixth shooter’s center mass twice. The man sank to the ground, his eyes frozen wide in death.

Warm blood seeped down Noah’s leg.

SEVEN

“Noah!” Brooke yelled, rushing for him.

“Stay put,” he hollered, waving her back.

She only raced faster as SRT swarmed around them, guns drawn. Please, Lord, let him be okay.

Her gaze shifted to the blood saturating his pants on his right thigh. Please, Lord, not his femoral artery again.

Deacon Stiles took a knee by Noah. “Special agent down. We need a paramedic—”

“I’m fine.” Noah waved him off. “We’ve got many critical. This guy”—he gestured to the shooter slumped at the base of the steps, gurgling for air—“and Molly . . . among them.” He winced, his brow hardening.

“Medevacs landing now,” Deacon said. “I got this guy. Who and where is Molly?”

“In here,” Caleb called, kneeling by Austin’s side as she continued to keep pressure on Molly’s chest.

Gratitude for Austin’s help filled Brooke, but the only way her sweet friend would survive was if God performed a miracle.

Two of her fellow flight medics, Cal and Leo, pushed through the doors with stretchers, followed by their supervisor, Oscar, who caught sight of Brooke. “You okay?” he asked.

She swiped tears from her cheeks and nodded.

“We need you on Medevac Three if you aren’t injured.”

“I’m not injured.” At least not physically.

Oscar bent to assess Noah’s thigh.

“I’m not critical,” Noah said, and Oscar moved on to the shooter, who was still gasping.

“If it hit your femoral artery, you are critical,” Brooke argued. “It’s only been a few months since your artery was severed. If the bullet hit it . . .” She swallowed, the words lodging in her throat.

“I’m fine waiting for an ambulance. There are many more critical than me.”

Oscar looked over at her. “Grab a set of scrubs in the copter and sanitize up,” he said. “I’ll get the shooter prepped for you to escort him.” He turned to Cal. “Take the woman bleeding out on the stage.”