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Vance laughed as he spotted them.
Josie was aware of the boom of another shot, this one much closer. Mettner firing at Vance. Missing.
Everything was happening so quickly and yet the images, the smells, the excruciating pain were burned into her memory for life.
Vance fired back at Mettner almost simultaneously. Vance’s body jerked. The Colt dropped. His other hand clutched the Glock, aiming it at them, pulling the trigger. Mettner advanced on him, returning fire, but after two steps, he went down.
Incredibly, Vance was still standing. Blood poured from two graze wounds on his side and arm and from a small hole in his upper chest. Too high up, Josie realized with rising alarm. Not close enough to his heart.
Josie willed her trembling hand upward, pointing her pistol toward Vance. He took a slow walk toward her. She lifted her other hand and wrapped it, too, around the pistol grip, trying to steady her aim. She fired a shot, but she couldn’t control her movements. Even as blood leaked from his wounds and the color left his skin, Vance grinned at her. He pointed the Glock at her face. Then his body slammed to the ground.
Josie was aware of Mettner on top of Vance, trying to wrestle the pistol out of his hands. Pushing the pain out of her mind, she got to her knees just as Mettner’s body faltered, his movements becoming slow and sloppy. Vance wriggled out from under him. Before he could stand, two figures rushed forward and descended on him.
Cyrus and Finlay.
Josie knew that the entire encounter had only taken seconds, but some part of her wanted to scream at them: what took you so long?
They dragged Vance away from Mettner, kicking his pistol out of reach and turning him onto his stomach. Finlay cuffed him and then began talking into her radio. From inside the garage, Cyrus said, “Clear! Finlay, get another medic for Miss Hadlee in here. Lark, stay where you are. It’ll be okay.”
Josie lurched toward Mettner. He was face down, not moving. “Mett! Mett!” Even the words hurt.
She labored to turn him over. Fresh adrenaline coursed through her, numbing some of the pain she felt. It was still hard to breathe. He looked up at her, eyes wide and surprised. “Are you hit?” Josie asked. “Where are you hit? Talk to me. Talk to me!”
But he only stared at her. She knew a 45 ACP round wouldn’t go through the vest, but it packed enough wallop to break ribs and potentially do other internal damage depending on where it hit. As her hands searched Mettner’s torso, probing around the vest, she felt heat leaving his body. Cyrus appeared beside her. “Help me!” Josie cried. “Help. Help.”
She didn’t recognize her own voice. Hysteria rose from her stomach into her throat, making her feel like she might vomit. Cyrus knelt beside her and started to unhook Mettner’s vest. His fingers came away with blood. “He’s hit.” He leaned down, looking beneath Mettner’s arm. “Got him in the armpit. At least once. Maybe twice.”
“Pressure,” Josie shrieked. “Put pressure on the wound. How long until the ambulance gets here?”
Cyrus didn’t answer. Instead, he began stripping. First his vest, then his shirt. He crumpled it and pressed it under Mettner’s arm. His free hand searched for more wounds. “I think he must be hit somewhere else. Or this nicked his heart. I don’t see—I can’t see—”
Mettner’s hand gripped Josie’s arm. She looked down at his face, so pale now. Lips bloodless. The surprise was gone. Now there was a look that broke her heart into a million pieces. Realization. Resignation. Tears rolled down her cheeks, landing on his. She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed. “Stay with me, Mett.”
His body jerked to and fro as Cyrus tore the rest of his vest and shirt off. “I found another one.” He took off his undershirt and pressed it against a bullet hole near Mettner’s pelvis.
Every time Josie tried to look away, to assess the damage, Mettner pulled her closer, his strength waning.
Cyrus muttered, “We need help.”
They looked over at Finlay, who had Vance secured. They couldn’t risk her leaving him. Even cuffed and wounded, he was still considered a threat. Just then, a figure limped out of the garage. Lark, her jeans streaked with dirt, her white tank top soaked through with sweat. Her long brown hair was matted to her face, neck and chest, gleaming with perspiration. She lumbered toward them, barefoot, and Josie saw that her wrists were tied with rope.
“I can help,” she croaked.
Neither Josie nor Cyrus argued as she approached and dropped to her knees.
Josie moved closer to Mettner’s head as Lark took position across from Cyrus. “Use your hands,” Cyrus instructed her, pointing to his balled-up shirt. “Hold pressure here.” She did as she was told, pressing her bound hands against the shirt, applying pressure to the wound beneath it, while Cyrus attempted to keep pressure on the other bullet hole.
But Josie could tell it was too late. Mettner knew it, too.
“Please, Mett,” she begged. “Please, please, please stay with me. Stay with me. A few more minutes. Don’t go.”
His lips moved even as his grip slackened. Josie put her ear to his mouth, concentrating with everything in her being, trying to hear him over Cyrus and Lark talking to one another and the radios bleating.
“Boss,” Mettner whispered. “Tell Amber…tell her I…”
Josie pulled back, saw the life draining from his eyes. “No, no, no, no, no! Don’t go, Mett. Don’t go. Stay with me. Tell her what? Tell her what? Mett! Talk to me. Talk to me.”
She was still blubbering, still shrieking for him to stay, to talk to her, no longer aware of the pain in her own battered body, when Cyrus began CPR. She was still holding his cold hand when Anya came running from the direction of the house. She, too, tried her best to revive him. They kept working on him until the ambulance came, even though he was gone.
