The gun went off and I knew at once I’d taken a hit. That old familiar slamming sensation, bam, into the back of my left shoulder and out through my chest, followed by a burn. I kicked behind me at the table, sent it loudly across the floor. It didn’t take Villiers out, but it distracted him long enough for me to pull Baxter behind the kitchen island, slipping in the blood pool left by Captain Walsh, but out of direct firing line.
“Are you okay?” I asked Baxter urgently, checking him over, my hands all over him. He was breathing hard, but the only blood on him seemed to be mine—and there was a lot of it.
“I think so,” he whispered. “But you—”
Villiers was already shoving the small kitchen table aside, so I took a chance, rose up to grab the largest kitchen knife I could out of the nearby block, and threw it at the man before he could get off another shot.
My aim was poor, and I registered then that I must have been more injured than I first thought. The knife struck Villiers in the arm, instead of through the neck where I’d been aiming. But it took the gun out of his hand, at least. I ducked back, gathered Bax up—ignoring his protests—and yanked him out of the kitchen. I slammed the kitchen door and continued down the hall as fast and as low as I could, then out the front door.
There was only one thought beating through my brain, keeping time with the pump of blood out of my body:protect him.
I wasn’t going to fail again, not this time, not for anything. But by this time, Bax was supporting me.
We made it into the car across the road just before my head began to spin. I tried to steady myself on the trunk, but my hand was wet with blood and I slid right off and crashed to my knees on the sidewalk.
I could hear Bax begging me to get up, and I wanted to, I had never wanted anything so badly in my whole goddamn life, but the world was retreating from me, spinning away into darkness.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Baxter
Angelo took a deep, shuddering breaths as I leaned over him. He’d been shot right through, back of the shoulder to the front of his chest, and there was an alarming amount of blood pouring down his left arm as he knelt there.
He tipped sideways. I grabbed him and helped him onto his back.
His eyes were closed.
“Oh, God. Ohgodohgodohgod,” I muttered, and pressed my hand to his shoulder to stop the blood, making him convulse in pain. At least it seemed to bring him back to alertness.
“God’s not going to fix this,” he said hoarsely. “Get in the driver’s seat and get out of here. Leave me.”
I took a second to peek up over the car. The front door of Walsh’s house was still shut.
“Go,” Angelo spat.
“Maybe I should just—”
“If you finish that sentence, kid, I will kill you myself. Leave me here, my DNA’s all over the sidewalk, in the house… Even if we get out of here…” He trailed off. His face was going gray. But I’d made my decision, and I was already pulling the car keys from his pocket. “Leave me,” he insisted weakly.
“The hell I will. Get in the car.Now!” I hauled him up, still ducking just in case, and yanked open the back door. Mercifully, he didn’t fight when I pushed him into the backseat, although I thought it might be because he was close to passing out.
Once I’d slammed the door, I dived into the front, started the car, and stomped my foot down on the accelerator. We took off, careening wildly down the street.
In the rearview, the street was still silent, though lights had started to come on in the neighboring townhouses, and I knew the police wouldn’t be far away. I couldn’t see Angelo, who had slumped over on the back seat, but I drove on, my heart pounding, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I pulled over in a quiet side street, scrambled out of the driver’s seat, and dived into the back of the car, practically on top of him.
Oh, God, don’t let him die—God, don’t you fucking dare let him die—
Every single fucking thing I’d ever learned about first aid had gone out of my head—
“Angelo!” I just about screamed, and he opened his eyes as I shook him hard.
“Phone,” was all he could say, and lifted a hand as though trying to point. But it was too much for him, and his hand collapsed back on the seat.
I patted my way desperately through his pockets and found the phone. My hands were shaking so much I almost dropped it as I held it over his face, and I had to shake him to get him to open his eyes so it would unlock.
I kept one hand pressed hard on the wound, but the fingers of my other hand on the phone were still too slick with blood and I had to wipe them off before I could scroll into his contacts. For a horrible moment, my mind went blank. Who should I call?
I looked quickly through the names, but none of them were familiar to me—Callie, Dave, Fred, Georgie… Luca and Finch weren’t listed, and though all these names were obviously pseudonyms, I had no idea which to call.
