“That still doesn’t make sense.” Zaira spoke as if she were having a conversation about the plot of her book, probably not comprehending the full danger they were in.
But in one quick second, Bellamy realized what Mr. Wright was doing. He didn’t want to chance that they’d overheard his instructions to the robbers last night, so he was brainstorming aloud the excuses he could give to everyone else for why he shot and killed them.
As Mr. Wright fixed the gun on Bellamy, another thought flashed through his mind. The man would eliminate him first so he wouldn’t be alive to interfere with Zaira’s murder. Except Bellamy couldn’t fathom letting Mr. Wright or anyone harm a single hair on Zaira’s head.
As the fellow straightened his arm and began to pull thetrigger, Bellamy shoved Zaira behind him, using a force he didn’t realize he had. With his other hand, he lunged toward Mr. Wright with his knife.
The gunshot cracked the air with a deafening blast.
From behind him, Zaira screamed, but he knew she was only surprised and not hurt.
Pain radiated through Bellamy’s shoulder. He’d been hit by the bullet. But even with the burning, he lunged at Mr. Wright, plunging the blade into the man’s arm.
Zaira screamed, “Bellamy! Be careful!”
He wasn’t in a position to be careful, not when he had to keep Mr. Wright from taking another shot. He stabbed his knife again, this time aiming for Mr. Wright’s torso.
Bellamy had picked up tips on knife fighting at the pub, had listened to others talk about self-defense. So he wasn’t a novice. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to hurt Mr. Wright more than necessary. He certainly didn’t want to kill him. Yet if that’s what it took to keep Zaira safe, he’d do anything.
As his knife sliced into Mr. Wright’s chest, the man released a pained cry. His hand wavered, and he lowered his gun, staggering backward.
Even though Bellamy’s shoulder was throbbing and blood was running down his outstretched arm, he shoved Mr. Wright with enough force that the fellow tumbled against the opposite wall of the hallway.
Bellamy sprang after him, grabbed the arm holding the gun, then slammed the fellow’s hand hard against the cement wall while at the same time putting pressure on the chest wound.
Mr. Wright writhed and cried out again with agony, but he still clung to the gun.
Bellamy banged the man’s hand against the wall again, and this time the revolver fell from his grip to the floor with a clatter.
Before Bellamy could bend down and swipe it up, Zaira was beside him and kicked the gun down the hallway out of reach.
Mr. Wright no longer seemed to be paying attention to the gun and was holding his chest, the blood from the slash there seeping through his fingers.
Blood flowed onto Bellamy’s hand and dripped onto the floor. Was it his own blood or Mr. Wright’s?
“Don’t move, Mr. Wright!” Zaira called.
Bellamy wavered, a strange dizziness hitting him. He grabbed a fistful of Mr. Wright’s shirt, his knife still at the ready but the blood on his hand making his skin slick.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Zaira pick up the gun and aim it at Mr. Wright.
The door down the hallway opened, and voices called out in alarm—probably other people coming to discover what the commotion was about.
Pain again raced through Bellamy’s shoulder and this time down his arm. He clenched his jaw to force back a moan, and he tried to focus on his knife. He couldn’t let it fall and chance Mr. Wright grabbing it.
In fact, with Zaira holding the gun, maybe it was best if he moved away so if she needed to take a shot, he wouldn’t be in her way.
He released his grip of Mr. Wright, took one step, then had a strange sense he was floating. His knees hit the hard floor, the hallway disappeared, and he fell into oblivion.
21
“Bellamy!” Zaira screamed. She wanted to rush to Bellamy’s side and help him, but she couldn’t shift her aim from Mr. Wright. Even though he was wounded, she had to make sure he didn’t get away.
He had to pay for all his crimes.
Several more people raced toward them, including a distinguished gentleman she recognized as a friend of her da’s, the bank owner, Mr. Conway. The Conways shared the same social circles as the Shanahans. In fact, the Conways—including Emilie, one of her closest friends—had been at the eating-of-the-gander party out at Oakland earlier in the week.
Surely Mr. Conway would realize she hadn’t been a part of plotting the bank robbery as Mr. Wright had suggested. No doubt the fellow had been accusing her and Bellamy to take the blame away from himself. But they’d heard him talking with the robbers last night, had heard him admit to unlocking the doors. If their testimony wasn’t enough toimplicate him, surely they could find other proof that he’d been involved.
