“It’s mine,” Blayne said, recognizing his number on the screen. He immediately hit the button. Well, he tried to hit the button. He cursed under his breath as he tried to tap and swipe at the screen.Whose bright idea was it to tap and swipe to get the fucking thing to answer?
“Hey, Ethan,” Blayne said, “what’s up?” Blayne heard a sound, but it wasn’t clear. “You’re breaking up. Let me see if I can find a better place to talk.” He stood, forgetting he’d placed Ethan’s hat on his knee. He bent quickly to pick it up.
Fuck!he thought to himself, as what felt like a bee stung him in his shoulder. An intense burning sensation followed. He looked to see where the bee was. Instead, he saw a red spot on his shoulder that seemed to get larger.Did I bump into paint?
The sound of the bullet now lodged in his shoulder finally hit his ears as he felt himself half-spinning, crumpling to the ground. He saw the blue sky next to a brightly colored umbrella. He heard a noise, twisted his head to the right and saw Kira knock over her chair. The sound of a woman screaming behind him caught his attention. Kira’s face was animated, and it looked like she was yelling something, but Blayne couldn’t tell what she was saying. He sensed motion around him. His head spun, his eyelids went limp and the world around him went dark.
Chapter Eighteen
Agent Murphy
Murphy stared at the drab walls of the safe house. Special Agent in Charge Geraldine Jackson stood in the living room, pacing back and forth. Her anger, mixed with anxiety, was wearing on Murphy’s last nerve, but Murphy kept her wits about her…so far. Murphy listened again as Stephanie Mitchell explained that she did not know what was happening. She detailed her relationship with Cynthia Dunning, Daniel Hawthorne and Ethan Bond for what seemed like the gazillionth time.
Murphy’s cell phone vibrated, and he looked down to see Agent Harper calling. She stood up and tiptoed into the kitchen. “Murphy.”
“Hey, Murph, you okay?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one who got knocked unconscious out there.”
“The docs said I’m fine. Just had my bell rung pretty good. It’s gonna leave a nasty bump on my head.”
“Always knew you had a thick skull.”
“Hardy-har-har,” Harper said, the hint of an upbeat in his voice.
“As for here, Jackson is in the other room grilling Ms. Mitchell. Mitchell’s already talked to ATF, and I even had Little from the NCIJTF talk with her for a few minutes—on an unsecured line at that.”
“Did you let her reach out to anyone?” Harper asked.
“Yeah. I was curious to see who Mitchell would call,” Murphy admitted.
“And?”
“She called Zach Reeves.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“One of Ethan Bond’s bandmates. I didn’t know who he was, either. Thank God for Google.”
There was a pause. She could hear the muffled sounds of Harper arguing with a doctor or nurse about being discharged. The doctor wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but Harper was being his typical stubborn self. She walked over to the fridge and grabbed herself a bottle of water. The fridge had a few staple items, but not much else was in the safe house. And with the layer of dust on most things, the place hadn’t been used in a long time. She twisted the cap off the bottle and took a swig.
“Still with me, Murph?”
“I’m here. Guess you’re not taking doctor’s orders?”
“Me? Nah. They wanted to keep me. When I played football, I had worse things happen. I’ll be fine. I promised I wouldn’t go to sleep for at least eight hours and to come back if I had any symptoms.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Murphy said. She knew better than to tell Harper to follow the doctor’s orders and stay in the hospital, so she didn’t even bother.
“Holy shit!” Harper said suddenly in her ear.
“What’s wrong?”
“You near a television?”
“Can be.”
“Turn on RNN.”
