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But he couldn’t think about that. Not when there were a dozen kids in his care, boys he was supposed to protect.
“Look, you want me, you got me. But let everyone else go inside.”
“You mean those other shitheads that laughed at me? Nah, I think they’ll stay. I got an extra clip just for them.”
“You haven’t hurt anyone yet, Carlos. You can walk. You’re only sixteen. Your whole life ahead of you. I’ll speak to the judge about leniency—”
“Sure, you want to talk now that I got you by the balls. Go ahead, talk. Not going to save you.”
“Except this is murder. If you do this, you’ll have taken fourteen lives. You’ll get life or worse, the death penalty. Do you really want that? Don’t you want to open that custom car shop with your little brother?”
Tyler thanked God he’d read Carlos’s file several times. Carlos had had dreams and aspirations. It was why they’d picked him for the program in the first place.
Only Carlos’s dark gaze didn’t hold anything except emptiness.
“Enrique bit it last night. Got shot by the cops last night when he pulled a piece. Stupid fucker tried to boost a car by himself.” Tyler could hear the pain in his voice, even if he couldn’t see it.
“Carlos, I’m sorry, but you don’t want this—”
“Don’t tell me what I want!” he screamed, spittle flying. “Maybe I’m planning on ending this today. What do you think about that? No jail, no death penalty. Just me going down and taking you assholes with me.”
If that was his plan, Tyler had a choice. He could rush him and try to tackle him before he got a shot off, or he could try to keep him talking and hope help would show up.
The decision was made for him when someone raced from the other side of the van toward Carlos.
Jeremiah Walton.
The kid was fast, but he wasn’t as fast as a bullet.
Just as Carlos turned toward Jeremiah, Tyler rushed him, ignoring the pain in his knee every time his feet hit the pavement. It seemed as though he was running in slow motion, and his gut wrenched as Carlos took a shot at Jeremiah. It must have gone wide, because the thin kid kept going, plowing into Carlos. The two of them were grappling for the gun, and then a loud pop echoed around them.
Tyler reached them just as Carlos pushed Jeremiah off him, his hands covered in red.
Tyler wasn’t thinking as he clocked Carlos across the jaw and snatched the gun. He threw it across the lawn.
“Blake, get him!”
Tyler knelt next to Jeremiah, putting pressure on the wound. Blood oozed up between his fingers, and his hands shook as he chanted.
“Please. Please. Please.”
The sound of sirens in the distance broke through the adrenaline pounding in his ears, and he whispered, “Hang in there, Jeremiah. They’re coming.”
TYLER SAT IN the hospital waiting area alone. He’d called Jeremiah’s mom on the way to the hospital and gotten her voicemail. That was hours ago, and Jeremiah was still in surgery. The bullet had gone through the right side of his chest, but they were worried about a collapsed lung.
God, while he’d been waiting to make his move, he’d been saved by a fourteen-year-old kid. One who had already been through the seven circles of hell in his short life.
Holding his face in his hands, he tried to concentrate on just breathing and drawing deep, calming breaths.
“Sergeant Best?”
Tyler’s head swung up, and the surgeon who had taken Jeremiah up stood in the doorway. She was a short Asian woman with a blank expression that scared the hell out of him.
“Is he all right?” he asked.
“Is his mother here yet?”
“No, not yet. Please, can you just tell me—”
