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Something feels really fucking wrong.
“Thatcher?” My eyes flash over his body.
He’s bearing his forearm to his abdomen, a gun in his hand. His black button-down seems wet. His security badge and lanyard are stained red…
Blood—he’s bleeding. No, no, no, no. “Those pops were bullets?” My voice sounds distant in my ears. In my head.
“His, then mine,” he says in a shallow breath.
The second pop seemed louder because Thatcher had pulled the trigger. And before the guy even fired, Thatcher shoved me to the ground.
To save me from being shot.
He took the bullet. “You’re wearing a bulletproof vest?”
He shakes his head, wincing and breathing strangely.
Stab proof vest, I remember. Some of SFO switched to stab proof vests, which don’t stop bullets. No, no, no, fuck, fuck. “Thatcher,” I choke. “Thatcher.”
His hand goes limp on the gun. “Take this.” He passes me the Glock, his arm weak against his abdomen now, weak against the gunshot wound. He’s bleeding. He’s fucking bleeding.
Holding the gun, I use my other hand to apply pressure against his wound.
He swallows hard, nose flaring. “Sulli…” He’s taking short breaths. Stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding.
“Fuckfuckfuck.” Is all that comes out of my mouth.
His eyes flutter. He’s about to leave.
Don’t.
Don’t go.
“No, please,” I beg, tears and snot coming out. “Please don’t go. Please. He needs you. He can’t lose you. Please. Jane—Jane can’t lose you…I can’t lose you.” I sob and then I rip the earpiece out of his ear. Maybe he already called this in—but I move fast in case he didn’t.
I find the mic button, the one I’ve seen Banks and Akara press a thousand times. Choking on my words, I say, “Sulli to SFO, Thatcher has been shot. He’s been shot. We’re behind a tour bus.”
Muffled voices come out next, but I abandon the mic to keep applying pressure to the wound. Thatcher puts his blood-stained hand over my hand, and he chokes out, “Call Jane.” He’s fighting consciousness.
There’s so much fucking blood.
I’m shaking as I drop the gun and frantically dig in my pockets for my phone. Call Jane. Call Jane. I struggle to dial the number, blood smearing on the screen. And I keep one hand on Thatcher’s wound, not letting him bleed out.
“Call Jane,” he repeats weakly, desperately, like he knows he’s losing time. Like this is it. “I want to hear her voice…” He chokes down a strange, pained noise.
Jane…Jane.
My beautiful, lively cousin. Thatcher’s wife. The love of his life.
She can’t survive this.
Banks can’t survive this.
Please.
The Morettis can’t lose another son.
I finally hit the call Jane. And I have no signal. I have no fucking signal. “Thatcher,” I’m bawling. “Just stay with me. Stay strong. Hold on.”
“SULLI!” Farrow yells.
Thank God.
“Help is coming,” I say through tears.
Farrow skids down to the ground, trauma bag in hand. “Can you talk to me, Thatcher?” He checks his pulse with his gloved hand, and to me, Farrow says, “Don’t move, Sulli.”
I nod frantically, over and over. I’m not moving. I’m not moving.
“Check Sulli,” Thatcher chokes out, “I had to push her…”
Farrow briefly glances to my belly.
I’m pregnant.
“I’m fine,” I almost snap frantically. “Pay attention to him. Don’t worry about me.” I would shove Farrow towards Thatcher, but he’s already working fast, assessing Thatcher under his clothes while also grabbing supplies from the bag—I barely make sense of what he’s doing with the readiness and intense pace at which he moves.
“No exit wound, Thatcher,” Farrow says with calmness, but there is palpable urgency in his eyes that scares me. “I’m going to lie you on your back.” He pulls Thatcher away from the tour bus, so he’s supine. “You did great, Sulli. I have this now.”
I can’t move.
Someone touches my shoulder, and when I glance over, I realize it’s Moffy. My cousin. My big brother. “Sul.” His tough green eyes soften on me. “You can let go. It’s okay.”
I exhale a staggered breath and scuttle backwards on my butt to give Thatcher room. Hands stained red. I can’t tear my eyes fully off Thatcher. Like if I blink, he’ll disappear.
Maximoff kneels beside me, and I’m gripping the life out of his hand.
Farrow has already taken over, putting pressure on Thatcher’s abdomen with some sort of special dressing and bandage.
I stay beside Thatcher. “Hang in there,” I speak through an avalanche of tears and sharp breath. “You’re doing fucking great.” I’m using the words Farrow said to me. I don’t know what else to do. He’s losing a fuck ton of blood.
Thatcher is barely responsive. He blinks slowly, staring up at the night sky, then at Farrow.
“EMTs are on their way,” Farrow says, applying a lot of pressure to the wound. “You have a chance here, so stop looking at me like you’re saying goodbye. You’re the hall monitor. Write me up later about all your little rules I broke.”
