AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Mark! No!”
She knew the guy?
I lift off him, seeing this dark-haired dancer crying over the dead guy. My wild eyes search the room until I find my wife crouching, folded into a ball in the corner. I don’t remember the steps I take to get to her. Next, she’s in my arms.
“I’m here, baby. Your husband is here.” I hold her, cradling the back of her head, which is caked with blood. “Aww, fuck. You’re bleeding.”
“He hit me with the gun handle. I passed out.” She squeezes me and squeaks, “I can’t believe you’re here. Oh God, all that blood on your hands.”
“Literally and figurately. Of course, I’m here.” I draw her face to me, needing to see her eyes. “You made me your contact. I got an active shooter notification.” With her tucked into my chest, I stand up. “Griffin and I got on the road within seconds.”
“Take me home, please.” Her legs wrap around my waist, and it’s the best I’ve felt in hours.
I don’t bother telling her about my running-through-the-tunnel adventure. I’ll get to that when she’s calmed down, and I have her in a safe place.
The girl who was crying over the dead guy is now sitting on the floor with two cops talking to her.
“Who is she?” I whisper to Katya.
“Another dancer. The guy was her boyfriend. Ex, really. She broke up with him.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
As I turn to leave the dressing room, a cop steps in front of me. “We need you to make a statement.”
“The fuck I do. I’m taking my wife home. Ask around who I am. Then send someone in charge to come take my statement. My wife was in here for an hour and you motherfuckers—”
“Lachlan,” Katya whines.
I clear my throat. “You sat outside for an hour.”
“We had a team in the other building. He made demands. We were waiting for a negotiator.”
“Last I heard, we don’t negotiate with terrorists. He got what he deserved. You were all crouched right here.” I motion with my head. “You saw what happened, how he shot at me. Write what you want.” As I’m saying this, I know it’s not that simple, and that Riordan will have to smooth this over.
Especially since we’re not in Astoria.
I keep walking and sigh in relief when no one follows me.
“How’s your head, my wife? I felt blood.”
“It’s pounding,” she says, sounding drained.
I consider if she needs to go to the hospital. Outside, I walk her to an ambulance. An EMT waves me over.
“Was she shot?”
“No. She was hit in the head with the butt of a semi-automatic.”
“Come here, sweetie.” An EMT pats a gurney.
“Don’t leave me,” Katya moans.
“Are you kidding me?” I lay her down and hold her hand.
“Age, height, and weight, sweetie?” she asks my wife and types into a machine. Looking at me after Katya answers, she says, “Didyouget shot, sir?”
“No. Why?”
