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“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, “You stopped being my son the day you killed my baby boy!”
I’m speechless. Shocked and confused beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. My training in the SEALs prepared me for a lot of things, but not this.
TEAGAN
“Kill him!” Mason’s mom sneers, pointing her finger at her son.
My heart stops. Using every last ounce of strength, I fight against the restraints until the ropes dig into my skin painfully. This can’t be it. I can’t watch him die.
Mason stares at his mother in disbelief. I scream, but thanks to the gag in my mouth, it’s nothing but a muffled groan. It’s enough to get Mason’s attention. He looks over at me once more. I’ve never seen so much pain and anguish in one person’s eyes.
Bang. A shot is fired.
“Noooo!” I scream against the gag. No, no, no! Please no.
Lowering my gaze, I immediately find his white shirt turning red at an alarming rate. Blood soaks his shirt as his body starts to sway. My vision goes blurry, tears running down my face uncontrollably.
Another shot is fire. Then another.
Everything happens so fast that I don’t know where to look. Someone comes seemingly out of nowhere and tackles Mason to the ground. Two… no, three, or five men dressed in SWAT gear come running from behind the house to storm the backyard.
One of the men runs toward me, blocking my view while shielding me from harm. He is wearing a black mask, but I’m pretty sure it’s Tank, judging by his size. I keep wiggling in the restraints, desperate to get free, but nothing gives. Blood trickles down my hands where the rope has rubbed my skin raw. At this point, I don’t even feel any pain anymore, at least not physically.
The gunfire suddenly stops, and the area goes eerily quiet. The man in front of me turns around and starts to untie me. He takes the gag out of my mouth first.
“Tank?” I rasp, my throat raw and dry.
He nods while carefully cutting my restraints with a knife he pulls from his boot. The moment I’m free, I almost collapse on the floor. I get back up quickly, thanks to Tank’s help. My knees shake uncontrollably, but somehow, I manage to stumble past Tank and run toward Mason.
He is flat on the ground now. Griffin kneels beside him, putting pressure on Mason’s chest. I fall back onto the ground, my hands and knees digging into the grass.
Griffin calls for Tank to help him get Mason in the SUV that one of the other guys pulls around the house. The team of men moves like a well-rehearsed stage production. Almost like an invisible force directs them to move in a precise order. One opens the back door while Tank and Griffin lift Mason into the back seat. I’m the only person awkwardly standing on the sidelines, unsure what to do.
If it wasn’t for Tank coming back for me to scoop me off the ground, I would probably just sit here until the morning.
“Is he going to be okay?” I ask, knowing damn well he can’t answer me.
The car Mason is in takes off in a hurry while Tank walks me to a similar-looking car up front. Sirens approach from afar as we get into the car, but neither Tank nor the driver seem concerned.
I sit in the back seat and buckle up, noticing how terrible my wrists look. They are swollen, raw, and bloody. I don’t feel any pain yet; my guess is that’s due to the adrenaline rushing through my veins. That will soon run out, and if I’m being honest, I’m looking forward to it. Physical pain is always easier to handle than the emotional kind, and right now, I’m not sure how much more of that I can take.
The drive to the hotel passes in a blur. We pull into the parking garage, where the second car is parked in front of the elevator, the back door still wide open.
“They rushed him to medical.” The driver breaks the silence just as he kills the engine. “You should get checked out as well.”
“I’m fine.” I open the door to climb out of the car, not realizing how weak my knees still are. I have to grab the top of the door so I don’t fall flat on my face. “But I’m going up there anyway, I guess.”
I take another moment to gather my strength before slowly walking around the car. Tank meets me halfway, and I gladly hook my arm into his for support.
“I really am fine,” I promise. “Physically, at least. I mean, yeah, I’m a little shaken up, and I haven’t really eaten a lot the past few days. So that’s probably not helping. What I mean is I didn’t get shot.”
We ride the elevator to the first floor. The familiar setting of the hotel's medical wing greets me when the doors slide open. The sterile smell of disinfectant fills my nose. The hall is empty, but many voices come from one of the rooms and the waiting area.
