by Irene Hannon
An instant later, he was gone, lost in a sea of black.
She stared at the spot.
Had she imagined that? Was her crushing fear creating danger where there was none?
Or had her tiny window to the outside world, which framed that one protestor to the exclusion of all else, given her a spotlighted view no one else had?
All at once the guy was back in sight, charging to the front of the group.
She gasped.
Her imagination wasn’t playing tricks on her.
He had a gun.
“Brent!” She tried to shout a warning, but it was lost in the cacophony around her.
The man swung the gun toward the cop in front of her.
“No!” With superhuman strength, she broke free of Brent’s hold and shoved the officer shielding her with as much force as she could muster.
Under normal circumstances, her willowy frame wouldn’t have had much impact on a muscled six-foot-tall guy who was in full-alert mode, but a push from behind hadn’t been on his radar—and adrenaline was known to impart superpowers in life-and-death circumstances.
This situation qualified.
No one was going to die because of her.
As Eve thrust the cop aside, she pointed and shouted. “Gun!”
A sharp report echoed through the crowd.
She jerked back.
Frowned.
Had someone shoved her?
Another crack snapped through the air.
This one, however, was more muffled. Fainter. In fact, all the noise around her began to fade.
How odd.
And why did her legs suddenly feel weak and—
All at once, a searing pain sucked her into a vortex, and she slumped toward the ground.
Had she been . . . shot?
Maybe.
Because the last image that registered as the world around her faded was the ashen face of the man she’d hoped would play a starring role in a future that now might never be.
No!
As Eve sagged against him, Brent holstered his Sig and swept her into his arms, his gaze riveted on the round, ragged—and widening—red stain on the right side of her abdomen.
Despite all their efforts to protect her, Al had bested them.
But he wasn’t going to win.
Lord, please don’t let him win!
“Ms. Reilly’s been shot! Close ranks!” As he barked out the order, the cops around him complied while the other officers in the vicinity became more aggressive, driving the crowd back with every available means short of using bullets.
Thank God.
They had to regain control here.
“Let’s get her back to the tent, away from this mess.” The lieutenant muscled in and spoke in his ear, motioning for nearby officers to accompany them as he hustled the group toward the protective canopy.
Brent followed him, trying not to jostle Eve. She was breathing, but her complexion had lost every vestige of color.
Once inside the tent, he gently set her on the ground and knelt beside her.
Her eyelids fluttered. “Brent?”
At her barely-there whisper, he leaned close. “I’m here, Eve.” He took her cold hand. “Hang in. Help is coming.”
She didn’t respond.
On her other side, the officer she’d shoved aside dropped down beside her. “I’m also an EMT.” He rolled her a bit to the left. “It was a through and through. Pretty straight trajectory. That’s a plus.”
Meaning the bullet probably hadn’t ricocheted too much off bones or organs and left a ton of unseen damage in its wake.
“What can I do?” Brent had to force the strained question past the constriction in his throat.
“We have to put pressure on the wounds, front and back. Sterile pads would be ideal, but whatever we can muster will suffice.” The man lifted Eve’s wrist and pressed two fingers to her radial artery.
Brent fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and ripped it off. Folded the fabric and tucked it under Eve, against the exit wound.
One of the other officers handed him a stack of paper napkins.
He pressed those against the smaller entrance site and exerted pressure, sandwiching the two wounds.
In the background, multiple sirens pierced the air.
Please let the ambulance be one of them!
One of the other officers started to elevate her legs, but the EMT waved him off, keeping his attention on his watch. “Not with an abdominal injury.”
The man backed away.
Brent watched the rapid, shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Shock was setting in.
Across from him, the officer raised his head. “For the record, she saved my life. I didn’t see the guy with the gun—but he was aiming for me. She must have spotted him, then shoved me out of the way.”
The pressure in Brent’s throat intensified. That sounded like Eve. She was the kind of woman who cared passionately about others, who would rather take a bullet than put someone else at risk.
The kind of woman any guy with half a brain would want to pursue.
And if God gave him another chance to test the waters of romance, he intended to paddle with both oars toward the copper-haired radio personality who’d breathed new life into a heart that had long lain dormant.
Was that Cate’s voice . . . and Grace’s?
Eve strained to hear the hushed conversation taking place just out of earshot.
Yes, it was them—but why were they hovering nearby while she was sleeping?
She shifted—but gasped as pain knifed through her right side.
The voices fell silent.
Had she been dreaming them?
And why did every muscle in her body ache?
Did her discomfort have anything to do with the strange dream she’d—
“Eve?” Someone smoothed the hair back from her forehead with gentle fingers. “Can you hear me?”
Grace again.
She forced her sluggish eyelids open.
Grace stood above her, features fuzzy—but clearly worried. On her other side, Cate gave her an appraising inspection.
Why were they—
Oh!
A swirl of memories engulfed her.
The belligerent crowd.
The guy with the gun.
The intense burning sensation.
Brent’s strong arms and ravaged face as she fell.
Brent!
He’d been close to the shooter too—and at least one more shot had been fired after the one she took.
Panic squeezed her heart.
“Where’s Brent?”
“Hey.” Cate gave an indignant sniff. “What are we, chopped liver?”
“And here I came racing in from outstate to see you.” Grace affected an insulted tone, but the squeeze of her fingers and her quick wink communicated affection rather than offense. “I could have gotten a speeding ticket.”
“I would have taken care of it for you, given the circumstances.”
“I know.” Grace smirked at Cate.
“Where’s Brent?” Eve tightened her grip on Grace’s fingers.
“Hey. Chill.” Grace motioned toward the door with her free hand. “He’s in the hall, taking another call. But for most of the time since you were brought up here, he’s been within touching distance of your bed.”
“So he’s not h-hurt?”
“No.”
Thank you, God.
“Did anyone else get injured?”
Grace motioned toward Cate.
Her older sister picked up the narrative. “Minor damage for the most part. What you’d expect when a large crowd gets unruly. The lowlife who went after you is the only one with serious damage, courtesy of two gunshot wounds inflicted by law enforcement. It’s fifty-fifty whether he makes it.” Cate’s expression hardened. “Right or wrong, I’m not wasting any prayers for recovery on his behalf.”
“Me neither.” Grace squeezed her fingers again
. “You’re the one I care about.”
“But I’ll be okay, right?”
“Only by the grace of God.” Cate blinked away the out-of-character sheen in her eyes.
Uh-oh.
Eve braced for bad news.
“You’re scaring her, Cate.” Grace sent their eldest sibling a chiding look, then refocused on her. “Yes, you’ll be fine. The bullet clipped your liver and cracked a rib but didn’t hit any other major organs and there was no vascular damage. The liver laceration was grade III, and those don’t require surgery. However, there is bleeding, so they’ll be monitoring that until it stops. You’ll also be on bed rest for a while to avoid any more tearing and to prevent further blood loss. Did I cover it all?” She checked with Cate.
“Other than the entry and exit wounds. They cleaned them up and bandaged them. Those scars will be the only visible signs of today’s trauma. If the bullet had entered—or traveled—a couple of inches to the right, we’d be having a different conversation. Or not.”
In other words, she could have died.
A shiver ran through her.
Cate drew closer and laid a hand on her shoulder, gentling her voice. “It’s okay, Evie. Take a deep breath.”
Evie.
Her big sister hadn’t called her that since the day she broke up with her first high school crush and was certain the world had ended.
Eve managed to summon up a smile. “It hurts too much.”
“A cracked rib can do that to you.” Grace adjusted the sheet over her. “But it will heal.”
“What time is it?”
Cate twisted her wrist. “A few minutes after six.”
Eve did the math. “So I’ve been in a fog for hours?”
“I think they pumped you full of narcotics while you were in the ER.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want any more of those.”
“You may feel differently once the painkillers in your bloodstream wear off.” Grace gave her a stern look. “You don’t have to suffer, you know. That’s what drugs are for.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Especially since every movement hurt.
But she didn’t want narcotics.
All she needed was a brown-eyed detective by her side.
Her gaze strayed to the door.
“He’ll be back as soon as he gets off the phone, if his pattern holds.” Cate folded her arms, and one side of her mouth rose. “In the meantime, you’ll have to put up with us.”
She transferred her attention back to her sisters. “Not a hardship.” She reached for both their hands. “I love you guys.”
“Mutual, I’m sure.”
Eve’s lips twitched. Leave it to Cate to resort to their old game of responding with lines from the classic movies they’d watched over and over again while growing up. Mushy wasn’t her sister’s forte, even if her heart was gold.
“White Christmas. And I’m sorry to put you guys through this.”
Never one to be left out, the baby of the family chimed in. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
“Love Story—and you guys are nuts.”
“But we’re your nuts. One for all, all for one.” Grace grinned. “However—we’re not opposed to swelling the ranks.” She flicked a glance toward the hall.
Eve didn’t respond—but it was good to know her sisters were on board with the program.
Because unless today’s drama had given Brent a lethal case of cold feet, from now on her number one priority was getting to know him better—and perhaps, if all went well, adding a fourth Musketeer to her family circle in the not-too-distant future.
Brent dropped more coins into the vending machine, punched a button, and waited for the soft drink can to clunk down the chute.
Come on, Colin. Return my call.
His cell began to vibrate as he retrieved the can of Diet Sprite.
Finally.
He set the soda beside the bottle of Lipton mango iced tea on the table beside him.
“What do you have?” He snapped out the question without bothering to greet his colleague.
“Hello to you too.” Was that a touch of annoyance under Colin’s dry humor?
“Sorry.” He wiped a hand down his face. “I hate not being in the thick of the investigation, but I don’t want to leave until I talk to Eve.”
“Understood. Been there, done that. How’s Al, aka Michael Alan Lander?”
“Critical. They’re saying fifty/fifty. Olivia didn’t make it. What’s the story on Lander?”
“We’re still digging. He and Eve went to the same high school but were in different classes. After living in California for a while, he came back here two years ago. Not married. Works as a house painter.”
“What’s his connection to Antifa?”
“Evidence in his apartment suggests he’s been involved in the movement since his days in California. Unless Eve can shed some light on why he may have a personal grudge against her, my take is that he was a zealot who somehow caught Olivia’s eye, and she tapped him for today’s assignment.”
“Did you find out anything else about her?”
“Some. The Battle of Seattle material in her file cabinets—along with attached handwritten notes—indicates she took part in the 1999 World Trade Organization protests . . . in which the Direct Action Network played a major role. That’s the earliest indication we’ve found of radical activities after her first husband was killed.”
“I wonder if that event reignited the fire in her, and once her second husband died she dived back into anti-government protest mode in a more behind-the-scenes role.”
“Could be. Once a rebel, always a rebel.”
“But why would she marry a banker and live a quiet life for more than three decades?”
“Maybe she didn’t. It’s possible she was dabbling in anarchist activities on the QT all along. The files in her office or on her computer may confirm that. Or not. At this point it doesn’t much matter.”
True.
“Keep me in the loop, okay?” Brent glanced toward the door to Eve’s room.
“You got it.”
Brent pressed the end button, slid the phone back onto his belt under the bilious green scrub top he’d scrounged up to replace his bloodstained shirt, and picked up the drinks. With Eve’s sisters hanging around, he might have to defer the discussion he wanted to have with her.
But Cate and Grace had to go home and sleep sometime.
If necessary, he’d wait them out.
Because he wasn’t leaving without saying what he wanted to say.
He strode down the hall, shouldered the door open—and stopped as three pairs of eyes swung his direction.
Only one set, however, stayed on his radar.
Eve’s beautiful jade-green irises were focused on him—bright, alert . . . and filled with warmth and tenderness.
His breath hitched.
“Are those for us?”
Somewhere in the recesses of his consciousness, the amused question registered, and he dragged his gaze away from Eve.
Cate was pointing at the drinks he was holding.
“Oh. Yeah.” He handed her the Diet Sprite and passed the tea to Grace. “They didn’t have your brand. Sorry.”
“I’ll suffer. Thank you.” She lifted it toward him in a toast.
“A man who fetches drinks for the sisters.” Cate grinned at him, then gave Eve a thumbs-up. “Grace—I think this is our cue to leave. We can rustle up dinner and come back later.”
“Works for me.” Grace bent and kissed Eve’s forehead. “Take care of yourself while we’re gone—although I think we’re leaving you in good hands.”
Cate squeezed Eve’s fingers. “Call if you need anything your friend here can’t supply. As if.” She snickered.
The two sisters made a quick exit.
As the door shut behind them, Brent walked toward the bed.
“Hi.” A slight flush bloomed on Eve’s cheeks as he approached her. �
�I’ve been waiting for you to—”
He leaned down, covered her lips with his—and discovered that the trite cliché was true.
Time stopped.
A minute later . . . an hour . . . who knew? . . . he backed off a few inches.
Eve stared up at him. “Wow.”
That didn’t come close to describing his reaction.
“Yeah.” The hoarse response was all he could manage while trying to convince his lungs to kick back in.
Her hand found his, and she gripped it. Tight. “Does that mean what I think it does?”
“Uh-huh.”
Joy chased away any lingering shadows on her face. “Epic, as the younger crowd would say. But I could use a little more convincing.” She tugged him closer.
He resisted. Despite the temptation to dive back in, he had a speech to give. “Hold on a sec. I want to clarify a few things.”
After studying him for a moment, she folded her hands on the white sheet that outlined her slim form. “Fine. As long as you’re not about to give me the I-like-you-a-lot-but-this-will-never-work-and-that-was-a-goodbye-kiss speech.”
He hitched up one side of his mouth at her blunt, to-the-point comment. No pussyfooting around with this woman. “A couple of weeks ago, that’s where I was.” He sat on the bed beside her, careful not to jostle the mattress. She seemed alert and in high spirits, but she had to be hurting. “However, I’ve had a change of heart. Emphasis on heart.”
She tipped her head. “What does that mean?”
“It means your assessment was on the mark. My heart wasn’t atrophied. It was sleeping. Waiting for the right woman to come along and nudge it awake. Kind of like in Cinderella.”
She grinned. “Wrong fairy tale. The prince awakens Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. Cinderella was more proactive.”
“Then I think our story is the best of two fairy tales.”
“Nice take.” She touched his hand. “Does that mean you’ve made peace with your worry about the risks of your profession, and the effect they could have on a significant other?”
“Having just lived through that scenario—in reverse—I’ve realized that as scary as risks can be, strong people aren’t freaked out by them. They do what has to be done to support and protect the one they lo . . . they care about. I’d put you in the strong camp.”
“I’m liking the sound of this.”