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My hand shakes as Ifill out the medical forms. Then they put me in a private area to wait. I rip off my bow tie, undo the stifling top button of my shirt, and stalk the tiled floor like a caged panther. Terror chases my every step. I check my watch too often and badger the nurses for answers, who can’t or won’t tell me anything.
Nearing the sixty-minute mark, I’m losing my mind when Victor comes racing in. I stop. I hadn’t called him. I hadn’t called anyone. He puts his arms around me. I take the comfort I hadn’t realized I needed.
“How’s Dee?” he asks, visibly distraught but retaining his composure for my sake.
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks. “They’re running tests. She’s unconscious. Head wound. Jesus.” I bend over at the waist, sucking in air. “I slammed her to the ground.”
I feel his hand on my back. “She could have been shot, Mick. You prevented that. She’s strong. She’s going to pull through.”
I nod because thinking otherwise is too much to bear. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
“That’s okay, man.”
It’s not. I hadn’t wanted to share my agonized worry. But more than that, I didn’t think I could cope with anyone else’s. “I’m glad you’re here.” I straighten, try to pull myself together. “Your buddies in blue told you.”
“Yeah. Ivers. He was called to the scene.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s sit down.”
“No.” I shake my head, attuned to the gravity in his tone. “If you know something, just tell me. I heard gunshots.”
“Stiles took down the shooter.”
“Jesus. Is he alright?”
“Got hit but he was able to call it in. He’s at St. Joseph’s.”
“What the fuck?”
“I know,” he concurs bleakly. “Did you see anything? Anyone?”
“No. I had just helped Dee out of the limo when Stiles shouted for us to get down. We did. Then I immediately heard gunshots. Four or five of them.”
“Did you see any of the shots being fired?”
“No. I was covering Dee the whole time. It sounded close at first, then got farther away. I didn’t look up until I heard the sirens. Why are you asking me when I’m looking for answers?”
“I needed to know you weren’t a material witness to the scene before I tell you anything. I wouldn’t want to compromise the case.”
“Jesus. Victor. Tell me.”
“What I got from Ivers is that Stiles didn’t see anything unusual until you and Dee got out of the limo. That’s when he noticed movement. It seemed to be coming from your neighbor’s property. Presumably he was lying in wait, outside of the range of your home cameras. He was dressed in all black as camouflage and looked to be armed. Thank goodness for Stiles’ combat training and quick reflexes. The shooter had a rapid firing weapon. He could have gotten off a round before anyone knew what hit them. But Stiles intercepted his gunfire. An exchange, with Stiles ducking behind the limo and trying to get the shooter farther away from you and Dee, took them down to the end of the driveway. That’s where Stiles took a bullet to the shoulder before he incapacitated the shooter. Looks like a clean shoot but the police have to investigate. They’ll need to see your home camera footage.”
Christ. Victor just described a scene out of an action film. Only it’s not. My breathing hitches as the horrific reality sinks in. Someone had tried to kill me. Could have killed Dee. “Who? Who the fuck did this?”
Victor puts a hand on my shoulder as Granger had. But in the doctor, I saw cool efficiency. In Victor, I see compassion mixed with dread and anger. “Mick…”
And in that moment, I know. My whole body shakes with it. His name spits out of me in murderous particles. “Malcolm. He did this.”
“I’m so sorry, Mick.” Victor pulls me into another firm embrace. “I can’t begin to understand what you must be feeling.”
How could he? His father was Cayo, a man of honor and integrity. Mine was the fucking devil himself. That Malcolm had chosen the night of the gala for his vengeful return wasn’t coincidence. He wanted to strike me down at my highest point. Married to the only woman I’ve everloved. My name, cleared of scandal. An esteemed award that celebrates my work and is a tribute to Cayo. While, in his twisted, sick mind, I had taken everything from him. Basketball, his career, his power.
I pull away. The image of Dee—lifeless and bleeding—evokes a rage so vile, it boils inside me. Scorching my chest, my lungs, my heart.
“Is he dead?” I ask, I hope. Because if not, I am going to fucking kill him myself.
