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Aimed at Rory.
“No!” She swung her crutch.
Boom! The gun echoed in her ear.
Rory fell.
Her scream cut through the night and she swung again, smacking Chad over and over again. “You fucking bastard!” The curses spilled from her lips. “I will kill you!”
And that’s when she saw another figure inside the elevator car.
“No.” This time her voice came out a whisper, her useless foot screaming in pain as she stumbled. “You.”
He was older, wrinkled, but it was him. She’d know that scar anywhere.
Chad was on the ground and he’d dropped the gun.
The scarred man bolted for it.
Amelia slammed her booted heel down on his hand.
He shouted; she did too, as searing pain spiked up her leg. She fell. Chad grabbed her bad leg, twisted it.
Agony. She kicked him in the face with her good foot, hearing the satisfying crunch of his nose as the heel connected.
The scarred man smacked her across the cheek. She grabbed his jacket, held on, pulling him off balance. “You killed my father!”
He grunted, tried to punch her. “You’re just like him, you little brat. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong!”
Then Rory was towering over them, jerking the guy off her. He punched the man in the face and Amelia saw the blood running down his leg.
Scar dropped like a sack of bricks. Rory snatched up the gun. Several of the SFI team came rushing from the stairwell, spreading out over the level.
It ended quickly and Amelia found herself in the back of an ambulance before she could get her wits about her.
The next hours were filled with questions from D.C. Metro and the FBI, along with a visit to the ER. She caught glimpses of Rory and Hannah, but things got blurry after the doctor pumped her IV full of pain meds. She drifted off to sleep, Vivi and Beatrice at her side, assuring her that Rory’s bad knee was even worse now after the bullet meant for his heart had hit it. They praised Amelia for her quick actions, but all she could think of was how her heart had stopped in that moment. Seeing him fall, not knowing if he was dead or alive.
She woke the next morning to find herself in a shadowed room with sunlight peeking through the edge of thin curtains. The sound of monitors beeped softly and she had a roaring headache. Her leg was in a cast and elevated on several stacked pillows. She felt disoriented, her vision blurry.
The rattle of someone snoring startled her, and she glanced over to see Rory in a matching bed, looking as bad as she felt. He, too, had his leg in a cast.
She shifted, throwing back the covers and blinking away her grogginess. The pain in her leg was a distant echo, the overall malaise in her body a dull background symphony. She managed to sit up and shoved the bedside table with a pitcher of water and a vase of flowers on it out of the way. While her mouth was dry as parchment and the bouquet was beautiful, there was only one thing she wanted—and he was in the bed next to hers.
Her leg felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as she heaved it off the mattress and lowered her feet to the floor. Sharp spikes shot up her calf and her hip complained as well, the added weight throwing her off balance.
Holding onto the railing, she waited until the room stopped spinning and hobbled her way to him, taking her IV pole with her. His breathing was even, the blanket thrown back, just like she’d witnessed in his room. The memory made her breath catch.
She touched his wrist ringed by a hospital ID bracelet. “I almost lost you,” she whispered, eyes filling with tears.
“Morning, doc.” He cracked an eye open and smiled at her. “Right proper drugs they’re giving us, eh?”
His British accent was terrible, but she appreciated the effort and laughed, brushing at a tear that sneaked its way down her cheek. “How do you feel?”
“Like I want you beside me.”
“I’m serious,” she chastised.
“So am I.”
