"Two more hostiles engaging! They're retreating!" Brandon's voice is strained. "Derek needs medical! And we need police now!"
Jax is already on his phone, calling 911, reporting a brutal attack—using language that will bring immediate response rather than delayed assessment. The whole time he's shielding me, positioning himself between me and any possible threat, covered in Reese's blood and still protecting me like that's the only thing that matters.
Sirens already. Building security must have heard the shots, and must have called the police immediately before we got around to it. The response time in this part of downtown is measured in minutes rather than the usual delays.
I'm shaking now, full-body tremors I can't control, the memory of Gabriel falling mixing with the sight of Reese dying, violence past and violence present colliding in my head until I can't separate them.
"I remember," I hear myself say, voice cracked and foreign. "Jax, I remember what happened. That night. Gabriel. I remember everything."
He's looking at me with an expression I can't decode—concern and understanding and something that might be dread about what I'm about to tell him. But before I can explain, police vehicles are flooding into the garage, officers emerging with weapons drawn, shouting commands to drop weapons and show hands.
Brandon is already complying, his hands up, his gun on the ground beside him. Jax does the same, carefully settingdown the bloody knife, positioning himself where officers can see he's not a threat.
"Hands where we can see them!" The officer's voice is authoritative, weapon trained on Jax who's still positioned between me and everyone else despite having just dropped the bloody knife.
"Private security!" Brandon calls out, his hands still raised. "Blackwood Security - licensed contractors! We were attacked! Our client was the target!"
More officers are flooding in now, assessing the scene—Reese's body in a pool of blood, Derek slumped against the vehicle with his arm bleeding, bullet holes in concrete, our destroyed vehicle with deployed airbags. The evidence of violence is overwhelming, impossible to miss.
An officer approaches Jax, weapon still drawn but posture shifting from threat assessment to witness processing. "Sir, I need you to step away from the woman. Keep your hands visible."
"She's my client. She was the target of this attack." Jax's voice is steady despite everything. "I'm not leaving her unprotected when we don't know if additional hostiles are still in this garage."
"We'll protect her. Step away. Now." The officer isn't negotiating.
Jax complies, moving two steps to the side but keeping his eyes on me, silently communicating that he's still here, still watching, still between me and anything that might materialize from the shadows.
Another officer crouches beside Reese's body, checks for pulse even though it's obvious he's gone. "This one's deceased. Single assailant?"
"Three total," Brandon reports, still maintaining his position with hands raised. "Two fled when police – you guys arrived."
A female officer approaches me, her weapon holstered now, her expression shifting to concern when she sees my face. "Ma'am, are you injured? Do you need medical attention?"
I shake my head, can't form words yet, still trapped between the memory of Gabriel falling and the reality of Reese dying three feet from me. The officer is saying something about shock, about paramedics, but her voice sounds distant like I'm underwater.
"Ma'am, I need you to look at me. Can you tell me your name?"
"Lana." The word comes out cracked. "Lana Pope."
Recognition flashes across her face—she knows the name, probably from news coverage of Gabriel's death or the foundation work or just being a wealthy widow in a city where wealthy widows get noticed. "Okay, Lana. I'm Officer Martinez. Can you tell me what happened here?"
What happened? Where do I even start? With the meeting that was supposed to end everything? With Victor Reese watching us from the shadows? With the first gunshot that turned our exit into an ambush?
Or do I start six months ago on a terrace during a storm when I watched my husband fall and felt relief mixed with horror?
"We were leaving," I manage to say, forcing myself to focus on today rather than six months ago. "After a meeting. Settlement with my late husband's brother. We were leaving and someone started shooting. Our driver was hit. The car crashed.Then that man—" I gesture toward Reese's body. "He came directly at me. With a gun. He was going to kill me."
"And the man who was protecting you?" Martinez glances at Jax who's being questioned by another officer twenty feet away. "He engaged the attacker?"
"He saved my life. That man was going to shoot me. Jax stopped him." The words feel inadequate for what actually happened—the violence, the knife, the terrible efficiency of watching someone die, so I can stay alive.
Martinez is writing everything down, her questions methodical and professional. How many attackers did I see? Did any of them speak? Did I recognize them? Can I describe their appearance?
I answer on autopilot, providing details while my brain is still processing that the memory came back, that I finally know what happened that night with Gabriel, that I have to live with the knowledge that I tried to save him but couldn't and part of me was relieved when I failed.
Paramedics arrive, immediately attending to Derek whose arm is still bleeding badly. They're talking about arterial damage, about getting him to the hospital, about how he's lucky the shot didn't hit anything immediately fatal. Derek is conscious, trying to insist he's fine, that he needs to stay and provide security for me.
"Sir, you're going to the hospital," one of the paramedics says firmly. "Your client has six police officers protecting her right now. She's safe."
