“Hang tight. We’re outside.” At Special Agent Young’s response, my heart stops racing.We’re going to make it.
Rotating drums on two sides, the wall at my back, and my husband in front, I safely wait for the gunfire to subside. After over about a b’zillion people say all clear, Suds stands and pulls me to him. With our arms raised, we’re marched outside to face the dizzying lights of firetrucks, ambulances, and police cars.
While descending the loading dock steps, my legs wobble, my head aches, and the vision in my right eye blurs. It’s probably better to sit than shout timber, so I drop my ass down and when my eyes open again, a bright flashlight flicks across my face.
“Mrs. Sutcliff. Can you hear me?” A young man in a white button-down shirt taps my cheeks.
Figures angels would have a dress code. “Fuck. Am I dead again?”
My husband, on his knees to the right of my gurney, squeezes my hand. “You’re in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. You lost a lot of blood but you’re going to be okay.”
Seems like I should remember something as important as a gunshot wound, but I come up blank. “I’m sorry. Are you sure?”
The paramedic nods as he checks my vitals. “Yup. A bullet grazed the top of your head. You’re very fortunate.”
Why do people always say that?“Wouldn’t it have been luckier not to have been shot at all?”
Suds snickers. “Can’t argue with her reasonin’.”
As more of what happened seeps from my memory banks into my conscious brain, I tap his arm. “Did any of our guys get hurt?”
“Nothing serious.” His mouth widens into a grimace.
“What about-” Mid-question, he slips a finger over my lips.
“Quiet. Rest.” I’d argue but a fuzzy sensation warms my chest and flows through my veins and arteries.
I haven’t been this high since high school and some home grown weed. “What did they give me?”
“Morphine. Your wound is going to hurt like a motherfucker.” As if making his point, the ambulance goes over a bump, and we land so hard I see stars.
“Mother-fudger.” Gut-retching pain causes bile to rise up and at the thought of cleaning puke, my son comes to mind. “Is Mikey okay?”
“He is. I just checked.” His hand cups my cheek. “Bobby’s taking excellent care of him.”
Turning my head, I shout up front. “Hey driver-guy, can we make a quick stop at my apartment?”
“Where do you live?” The man behind the wheel glances at me in the rear-view mirror.
“Bensonhurst.”
When he chuckles, I turn to my partner. “What did I say?”
“We’re in Long Island. Remember?”
“I do now, and you were magnificent. I can’t believe how you swooped from the rafters. I thought you were a giant moth… or a Mega-Pigeon.”
“She’s a little out of it.” The guy in the white shirt and dark pants shoots a worried look at my best friend and lover but I can speak for myself.
“We’re Suds and Sam, Private Detectives. This shit happens all the time.”
Suds’ expression morphs into a rare scowl. “I thought we agreed you’d wait outside.”
His scold would normally make me bristle but it tickles a funny bone. “Get in, get Dash, get out.Your words, by the way, not mine.”
We’re still discussing the nuances of chain of command and the merits of my spectacular distraction as we enter the ER.
As the doctor stitches me up, the bounty hunter, in the next bay over, drags open the curtain. “You have to admit, she saved our asses.”
