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Chapter 25
DARREN
Past
Icontinue to lay on top of Bridget even after the shots seemed to have ceased. She takes short breaths; her eyes were wide, her body tense. I hear Marshall cursing and one of the other security guys, Chang, calling 9-1-1. Time seems to move slower.
“You okay?” I ask Bridget.
“I think so,” she whispers.
Relief washes through me.
I hear Marshall approaching. He stands behind me and curses again. “Shit!”
He helps me off her. The burning sensation in my upper body intensifies.
“Check Bridget,” I tell him as I sit down against the wall of the building.
“Darren!” she cries when she spots the blood staining my shirt sleeve.
I look her over to see if she was shot before looking down at my arm. The lighting from the building is subdued, and the nearest streetlamp is several yards away, but it’s enough for me to see red.
“You got shot in the back of the shoulder, too,” Marshall informs me as he holsters his Glock.
I can feel the gunshots now. It’s like someone’s trying to drive a red-hot poker through me using a sledge hammer.
“Motherfuck—!” I hear JD scream.
Looking over, I see him lying on the ground clutching his leg. He has blood on the side of his head, too, but he’s going to be okay if he can swear. Amy sits near him, shellshocked but looking physically unscathed.
“We should make a tourniquet for that arm and put pressure on your shoulder,” Marshall says.
“Will this work?” Bridget asks of her belt.
Marshall nods. She whips off her belt for him to tie on my arm above the wound. By now, Cheryl has come out.
Seeing me, she puts a hand to her mouth.
“He’s gonna be okay. Looks like shoulder and arm only,” Marshall assures her.
“I called Lieutenant Chiu,” she tells me. “He said Sergeant Trawley is on his way.”
Chiu and Trawley of the SFPD are both on the triad payroll. Hopefully, Trawley arrives on the scene soon to help manage the fallout.
“Get towels,” Marshall tells Cheryl.
“Check on JD first,” I tell her. I turn to Bridget. “You should check on Amy.”
She doesn’t seem to want to leave. Her eyes are full of worry.
“Go,” I grunt.
She gets up and goes to her friend.
I lower my voice and ask Marshall, “You see who it was?”
“Chang got the make of the car but there was no license plate,” Marshall says.
