28
SLOANE
The world comes back to me in pieces. I hear sounds first—gunfire cracking through the air, people shouting, boots pounding against cobblestone. Then sensation—cold seeping through my jeans where I'm sprawled on the ground, and pain radiating from my chest in waves that steal my breath.
I try to inhale and cough instead. The air won't come. My lungs refuse to expand properly, and panic flares in my chest as I roll onto my side, gasping, forcing my diaphragm to work. Small sips of air make it past the spasm in my throat and rib cage, shallow breaths that slowly inflate my lungs. The vest saved my life, but the impact knocked everything loose inside me.
I push myself up on one elbow, blinking hard to clear my vision as one panicked thought hits my mind.Where's Dane?
The booth I'm sitting in is splintered now, torn apart by bullets. Wreaths and garland are scattered across the snow, and beyond that, the square has become a battlefield. Bodies lie motionless near the fountain. People crouch behind overturned tables andvendor carts, returning fire at figures dressed in black tactical gear who advance from every direction.
Dane is nowhere in sight. I scan the chaos, searching for his tall frame, but I can't find him. My heart pounds against my bruised ribs, and the pain shoots up my back, making me gasp when I try moving.
I feel like I need to move because staying put here leaves me an open target. If they find out I'm not bleeding out and dead, they'll come back to finish the job.
I crawl forward on my hands and knees, keeping low, and duck under a table that's somehow still upright. My fingers find the Glock holstered at my thigh, and I pull it free with hands shaking so badly I almost drop it.
Get it together, Sloane. People are dying out there.
I chamber a round the way Dane taught me and flick the safety off, and keeping my finger off the trigger, I sit there shaking for a few seconds. I've been the one stitching people up, seen gunshots and bloody stumps and given CPR while riding on a gurney in an elevator, but I've never taken a life. I'm not sure if I can even do this, but as soon as I hear footsteps rushing past, I know I have to try.
A man in black gear runs past my hiding spot with a raised rifle, heading toward a cluster of townspeople pinned behind the cider stand. All I can think about is how these people are out here defending me and Dane, and my body moves without conscious thought.
I crawl out from under the table and rise into a crouch. My ribs scream in protest, but I ignore them. The shooter's twenty feetaway now, his back to me. I lift the Glock, trying to remember everything Dane said, but my finger tightens on the trigger and before I can fire, someone slams into me from the side.
I hit the ground hard, the gun flying from my hands as a body pins me down. I thrash, trying to break free, but whoever it is, he’s big and strong. Hands grab my wrists, wrenching them behind my back, and I scream in frustration as much as fear.
"Got you," a voice says above me, and it's so wicked and sinister, I know who it is before he even tells me his name.
"No," I breathe as he hauls me to my feet, keeping one arm twisted behind my back. Pain shoots through my shoulder now as I try to kick at him, but he anticipates it and yanks me closer, using my own momentum against me.
"Stop it," he says, his breath hot against my ear, "or I break your arm, you little bitch."
Fear cripples my defenses. I don't want to die. I don’t want him to hurt me or Dane, and though my eyes are constantly searching, I still don’t see him anywhere. "Please," I plead, but Cal picks up the gun I dropped and presses the cold metal to my temple.
"Walk," he orders, shoving me forward.
He forces me away from the square, toward the narrow alley between the hardware store and the post office. My feet stumble over uneven cobblestones, and he keeps the gun pressed to my head the entire time. I'm not stupid enough at this point to try to resist him. He'll kill me without hesitation. My only hope is for someone else to see what he's doing and stop him.
We stop in the shadows where the alley meets a back street and he spins me around so I'm facing him, the gun now pointed at my forehead. His expression is calm as he cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes on me.
He's getting exactly what he wants now—public revenge. Dane told me this is what he wanted, and he's getting it. A shootout in a small mountain town in the middle of the Adirondacks that's tied to organized crime will make national headlines, and Cal's going to soak up all the glory when he finishes what he started and goes back to New York.
"You killed my father," he says.
"No," I croak, still hoarse and winded from being shot. "I tried to save him."
"You gave him the wrong medication." His finger rests on the trigger, not pointed down the barrel the way Dane taught me. Cal is poised to kill me. "The attending physician told my family. You dosed him wrong, and it stopped his heart. You killed him."
"That's not true." Desperation claws at my throat. "I didn't—someone else made that mistake. They blamed me because I was new, because I was the easiest target, but it wasn't me. I swear it wasn't me."
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in his eyes, the way they've gone flat and cold, like two dead pools of inky darkness and no soul behind them. He's already made up his mind. The truth doesn't matter to him. Only vengeance does.
"Five years," he says. "Five years I've waited to make you pay. To make the man who killed my father pay. And now I have both of you."
He steps back, keeping the gun trained on me, and raises his voice. It carries across the alley, loud enough to reach the square.
"Dane Barrett!" he shouts. "I know you can hear me! I've got your little whore nurse! You have thirty seconds to come out or I put a bullet in her head!"
