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Elliott’s right shoulder had been hit.
Latte fell right in front of her as his gun slid out of his grasp.
“Elliott!” Marie kicked the gun as she sped down the stairs. “Elliott! Please! Someone help! Elliott!” She was screaming like a banshee. Could hear herself.
She could also see Elliott, his shirt wet, but still on his feet. Coming up the stairs toward her. Stairwell doors flew open. She heard them hit the walls behind them with force. No door stoppers. Uniformed men filled the stairwell.
Shouts of “Clear!” Scurries. Voices in hallways.
But the only one in her world was Elliott.
“Are you okay?”
She heard the question. But couldn’t answer. Arms gathered her close. Familiar arms. Encasing her in safety.
In love.
And Marie lost consciousness.
* * *
“I WANT MY WIFE.”
Sitting on the side of the examining table in the emergency room where he was being stitched up, Elliott looked at his stained pants. He’d refused to lose them.
Refused to be more thoroughly examined. He was fine.
“She’s been checked out, and is fine.” The resident, who was irritating him no end with his voice filled with fake cheer, cut thread for the last time.
And Elliott slid to his feet, taking the shirt beside him on the gurney with him. He’d left the vest that had saved his life out in the waiting room with Liam and Gabrielle.
“Sir,” the resident, and then a nurse, called back to him.
“I want my wife,” Elliott repeated.
And they let him go.
Sometimes it paid to be an overly large man.
* * *
A COUPLE OF detectives were sitting with Liam and Gabi in the waiting room. Marie—who’d taken the advice of the doctor on duty in the ER and had a glass of juice once he’d pronounced her traumatized but healthy and had given her a list of emotional symptoms to watch out for—saw the detectives, before she recognized her friends.
Heart pounding, she pushed herself forward.
She’d listened to the doctor’s warnings about psychological shock. But hadn’t really heard him. If she started to have panic attacks, she’d call Bruce. She had a shrink for a stepfather.
“Where’s Elliott?” she asked the group at large as she approached them.
“Over in ER getting stitched up. He refused to let anyone even look at him until you were taken care of.”
He’d ridden to the hospital with her in the ambulance, she’d been told. She couldn’t remember anything clearly after seeing the flash of gunfire until the gurney she was lying on was pulled out of the bus. There were sounds. Movement. Strong arms. More sounds. More movement.
Elliott’s voice telling her that it was all over now.
More voices. More movement.
“Do you mind if I get a swab of your hand?” A woman in beige tweed pants and jacket approached her.
