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CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Wake up dammit!”
That voice. I know that voice.
“Yeah, I need an ambulance. Fast, please. Detective Brianna Andrews’ residence. 593 Palms Road, Unit 203. She’s been shot. Bri, open your eyes, baby.”
He sounds stressed—troubled. And who did he say has been shot?
Memories suddenly flood my head and with them comes pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
I try to suck in air, but it only causes more pain.
“Hold on,” he tells someone. “Bri?”
Oh, God, it hurts.
I hurt.
“Off. Get... it off.” I can’t breathe. I need it off of me now.
“Get what off?”
I open my eyes, but my vision is fuzzy at first. I can make out Drago in the haze, and I realize he’s leaning over me, looking everywhere but at my eyes. His gaze darts up and down me and his chest heaves like he’s panicking.
“Vest.” I attempt to lift my arm to my shirt but only manage a few inches off the floor before my energy vanishes and I drop it back down.
It feels like someone has taken a steel baseball bat and done a number on my body. There isn’t a single inch of me that doesn’t hurt—some places more than others. There is a fire burning so fiercely in my thigh that I start shaking uncontrollably.
Drago must understand I mean the bulletproof vest underneath my shirt because he yanks it open, not caring to unbutton it first. I’m grateful in this circumstance.
I’m met with a small amount of relief when the Velcro is loosened, but then my stomach erupts in pain, followed by a rush of nausea.
I’m going to throw up.
Saliva pools in my mouth like someone has released a damn, opening the floodgates.
I roll to my side despite the protests of sharp pains shooting through my lower abdomen and upward.
Definitely got shot. The bullets may not have penetrated my skin, but they’ve done a number on my innards.
“Hair. Grab.”
He pulls the long strands of my hair out of the way seconds before I lose the contents of my stomach onto the floor.
“An ambulance is on the way.”
I don’t give a damn about an ambulance.
Gabriel.
“Gabe,” I force out as I roll back over.
Planting my palm on the floor, I use every bit of strength I have to push myself away from my puke. Drago grabs my upper arms and one of my legs, assisting in moving me a few feet away.
Talking is becoming tougher. My ribs obviously took an impact. I wouldn’t be surprised if one were cracked—or even broken.
When I look up, alarm is written all over Drago’s face.
