Max yelps, caught in the blast, then bolts behind the couch with a terrified whine, and my phone slips free from my hand.
“Run! Run now!” I scream, shoving Tessa down the hall the moment I seehimcome into view.
TWENTY-EIGHT
EMILIO
The sharp,deafening sound of a gunshot splits through my phone’s speaker, and a second later, glass explodes into the darkness with a sound that shreds the quiet. Raelynn’s scream rips into my ear, thin and animal and full of panic, and my chest caves.
“RAE!” I scream into the speaker, but the line answers me with static and the faint tail of her voice echoing away.
For one terrible second, she’s there and then nothing but a silence so loud it hurts.
“Rae!” I shout again, almost a plea this time, fingers tightening until my knuckles protest against the cheap plastic of my phone. Fury and cold fear war in my chest, and I let the anger win for a second. “FUCK!” I drive my injured fist into the passenger side of my truck. A dent forms in the metal beneath my knuckles, and red beads up between the seams of the bandage. The pain grounds me, and I draw in a breath, listening to anything else I can hear. Nothing but silence comes through.
I pray to the fucking gods she’s hiding in a good spot, somewhere to give her a good fighting chance, because I don’t know what I’ll do… no scratch that, I know exactly what I’llfucking do if she is hurt. I’ll hunt the bastard down and kill him myself if something happens to her.
He’ll get a taste of his own medicine as I rip him to fucking shreds.
I press my forehead to the window, the cool glass steadying me for a moment. “Baby,” I breathe into the phone even though the call’s gone quiet. My voice drops, tight and raw. “If you can hear me, help is on the way. I’m coming…” I let the word hang there, then twist it into a promise and a warning as I lift my head off the glass. “And if youcan hear me,Ripper,” I pause, spitting out his name like it’s acid on my tongue, every syllable a curse. “Touch her and it’ll be the last thing you ever fucking do.”
Ending the call, with shaking fingers, I dial 911. It rings twice, twice too fucking many, before Dispatch answers. I don’t even give them a chance to speak before I cut in, willing my voice to steady as I yank open the passenger door.
“This is off-duty Officer Emilio Perez, badge number 48274. I need immediate assistance at Catalina Crest Apartments, 9306 E Broadway Boulevard, apartment 151. Home invasion in progress as we speak, suspect is armed and dangerous!” I say quickly as I toss the folders that I had tucked under my arm onto the passenger seat.
The dispatcher’s tone sharpens instantly. “Copy that, Officer Perez. Units are being dispatched now. Is anyone injured?”
I slam the passenger door and round the front to the driver’s side. “Not that I know of,” I say through gritted teeth. “But someone will be ifsheis.”
I climb into my truck, jam my keys into the ignition, and twist. It roars to life, the radio spitting out some song. I quickly switch to Bluetooth. The moment my phone connects, I toss it onto the passenger seat and throw my truck in reverse, and back out of the station, gravel spitting from the tires.
“Are you on the property now, Officer?” the dispatcher asks. Her prying questions are starting to grate on me, but I know she’s only doing her job.
“No,” I snap, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. “I was on the phone with my girlfriend, Raelynn Carson, when she told me someone was trying to break in. I lost contact with her after I heard gunshots.” I take a hard right onto Speedway Boulevard, tires squealing. “Just get someone there fast!” I yell before ending the call.
The city blurs past in streaks of amber light and shadow, every streetlight a heartbeat I can’t afford to lose. My pulse hammers in my ears, keeping time with the low snarl of the truck’s engine as I push past eighty. Red lights flash ahead and I barely slow, rolling through intersections when they’re clear, every nerve locked on the road, on the distance shrinking between me and her. The tires hiss over the wet pavement, the whole truck trembling as I weave through the empty streets. Every second that passes feels like another piece of her slipping away.
I hit the turn for her complex in under ten minutes. The parking lot is dark, except for the distant glow of a few porch lights. I kill my headlights before pulling up as close as I can to her building—to her apartment.
Then I see it.
The patio door, or what’s left of it. The glass is gone, blown inward, fragments glittering across the cement like frost. My chest seizes, the air leaving me in a sharp, silent gasp.
I throw my truck into park and pop the center console. I take my Glock, check the magazine and chamber, then grab the flashlight and slide out. My Vans scuff the pavement as I move, flashlight in my left hand, gun up in my right. I cautiously step toward the front door, and my pulse beats erratically at the sight of the split wood. I try the door, noting it’s still locked and roundback towards the patio. I draw in a breath as I push open the patio gate. It creaks, the sound too loud in the quiet as I slip through. My flashlight drifts over the porch and into the living room, glinting off the shards strewn across the living room floor as I cross the threshold. Glass crunches underfoot as I move further into the room.
A low whimper breaks the quiet. I pivot toward it, gun up, beam low. Max lies crumpled by the couch, panting heavily. His flank glistens wet beneath the light.
“Shit,” I mutter, dropping to a crouch beside him. “Hey, buddy.” He whines when I touch his head, the sound weak and broken. There’s blood slicked around his hind leg, just above the flank. “It’s okay, Max, good boy. Save your strength,” I drag my palm along his fur once before forcing myself back up.
Turning away from Max, I sweep my flashlight through the rest of the living room and into the kitchen before moving towards the hall. Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer with each passing second.
“Police!” I call out. “If anyone is in here, make yourself known!” I move down the narrow hall on tiptoe, flashlight in my left hand, Glock high in my right. “This is the police,” I call out again. “Come out with your hands up!”
Something creaks, and the hair on the back of my neck lifts. I swing the beam toward the sound just as a voice cracks through the dark.
“Emilio?”
My heart jumps at the sound of her voice. “It’s me, baby,” I answer, lowering my weapon just enough.
