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Nausea rolls in my belly and my head smarts when it raps against the dash. But the bullets stop. The roaring booms. The smashing glass, too. Drake speeds through Copeland streets and earns honking horns for his aggressive maneuvers, but when silence hangs except for the soft drone of the radio I had no clue was even on, he reaches across and touches the back of my neck.
Just like he did in my mom’s hospital room.
And just like I did then, I startle now and turn my head with tears in my eyes. “Is he going to live?” I use my knees to rest my head and softly cry like an idiot.
It’s so dumb that I want to graduate medical school and save people’s lives. Yet, every time something bad happens, I cry and run and do nothing at all that could be considered helpful.
“Officer Clay,” I clarify when he only studies me between glimpses of traffic. “I don’t think it was a fatal wound,” I rasp. “And he wasn’t hemorrhaging. But I don’t…” I swallow the lump in my throat before it turns to vomit. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t know the answer to that.” Carefully, so gently, he squeezes his fingers around my neck and pulls me up so I can cautiously peek through the windows at slow-moving, city traffic. Those who putter along around us would have no clue where we came from. None would have any idea they’re so near people who were involved in a shoot-out a moment ago.
He continues to guide me up until my back is straight and my eyes sprint from him, to the car in front of us, to the car to my right. Panic slices through my veins and makes it hard to focus, but with another squeeze of his fingers, he brings me back to him. “I could lie,” he murmurs, “and tell you Clay is young and strong and he’s probably gonna be fine.”
“But you’re always straight with me,” I rasp desperately. “Right? No matter what.”
“Right.” Finally, he releases my neck and picks up the police radio instead. “So instead of placating you with a lie, I’ll make a promise to find out what’s happening. And whatever it is, I promise to tell you.”
“He took the bullet that was meant for me.” Horrified, I bring my bloody hand up and cup my quivering lips. “He’s taller than me, and it passed through his shoulder. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but he popped up and took a bullet that probably would have hit my throat. Or my face.” Fresh, fat tears burst from my eyes and soak my cheeks. “It was meant for me, Drake. And now he might be dying.”
“This is Special Agen—” almost as horrified as me, Drake glances my way and swallows his words, “Um… Detective Banks. Requesting an update on the Copeland City Hospital incident.”
“Banks!” Archer Malone’s voice is distinctive to me now. Easily picked out of a crowd. “You’ve got Swanson?”
“I’ve got her. Update on Clay?”
“Heading up to emergency now. Trauma doc isn’t freaking out. Vic is conscious and talking. Fletch apprehended one of three shooters. He’s wounded too. On his way to the ER.”
“What about the other two?” I ask. I study the side of Drake’s face and swallow. “He said three shooters.”
But instead of hitting the button on the side of the radio and asking, he looks to me and studies my eyes. “They’re dead.”
“D-dead?” My voice cracks on that one word. “Deceaseddead?”
“Deceased dead,” he confirms. “Malone took one, and I got the other.” Pressing the button, he speaks, “I don’t have to remind you to arrest the perp and have guards on him around the clock, do I, Malone?”
“Nah, I think we’re good,” he drawls. “Not my first day on the job. I’ll update on both men’s status as it changes. The witness?”
Drake looks at me again, narrowing his eyes the longer he stares. “Green around the edges. Lots of blood, but I’m not sure where hers ends and Clay’s starts. She’s conscious and alert. You and Fletch?”
“Unharmed. Keep us updated on the girl.”
“Yep.” He sets the radio back in its cradle and brings us around a corner. “We’re gonna drive for a bit,” he tells me. “And we’re gonna make sure no one is following us.” He takes another corner and watches the rear-view mirror. “Then we’re going back to the house and making sure you’re not hit.”
“I’m not.” I look down at my shaking, stained hands, and stammer, “I-I’m fine.” But then I look around the car and exhale an aching sigh. “Lost my cane again.”
“You go through those as often as I go through boxer shorts.” He rolls his eyes and watches the road. But his lips curl into a grin. He shot men today. Killed one and wounded another. He was being shotat. Saved my life. Met a dying woman. Forgot his title and potentially flew back five years in his life to the man he was before he was a regular detective and his best friend was still alive. And yet, his lips curl up now. “I’ll get Malone to find you another. Are you in pain?” He casts a glance along my body. “Anything from today?”
“No.” It’s only a small lie. An omission, really. My leg and the rod inside have nothing to do with today. It always hurts. So I shake my head and drop it back to rest against the seat.
I forgot about the bullet that passed through until the fraying on the headrest touches my scalp. But I close my eyes and ignore it. I can’t deal with that right now. Or with the reality I can’t seem to escape. The men who want me dead. The one murder I witnessed that now, I can’t get away from.
“I’m so friggin’ tired,” I sigh. But then I open my eyes and look at Drake. “My mom?”
“Has guards on her door. They’ll be there twenty-four-seven, and after today, she’ll probably remain in maternity, purely because it’s easier to keep her safe.” He checks the rear-view mirror again for just a beat before ducking into a tight alleyway and coming out the other side. “The hospital will be on lockdown right now, but the patients inside won’t have any clue about it. Staff are well-trained, and everywhere except the ER will be locked tighter than a super-max prison.” Setting his gun on his lap and reaching across, he taps my knee and smiles when I glance toward his face. “Let’s go home,” he murmurs. “I need to know that’s Clay’s blood and none is yours.”
Drake
CROSSING THE LINE.
