Nothing that would indicate Montgomery was alive.
I’d grown used to sobbing over the last few days, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t sick of the emotion. I needed to be strong and not only for myself. I tumbled down beside Montgomery, gently rolling him over.
“Oh, God. Montgomery.” He wasn’t moving, barely breathing. The shrill sound of sirens was everywhere, cutting through the quiet moment as an ugly reminder of the danger. “Stay with me. Help is on the way. Someone call an ambulance. Please.” My wail was high pitched and I had no idea if anyone was listening.
Or cared.
I was trapped in a moment of time that would haunt me for months. A strange place. No one to turn to. No one to call to help me. Then I remembered what Montgomery had told me to do if anything happened. And not grab the go bag and run. It was torched along with everything else.
The number.
Call his brother.
Sirens were everywhere, coming from both directions.
I’d memorized it. With my hand shaking, I pulled out my phone, fighting falling tears and anger. Just as the call was answered on the second ring, I could see cop cars rolling up only yards away.
“I’m getting help, Montgomery. Just hold on. Please hold on.”
Montgomery moved, coughing when he did. Spittle of blood oozed from his lips. Oh, God. No. No.
“Who is this?” The voice was dark, angry, and similar to Montgomery’s.
“Alexander Prince?”
“I asked who this is.” The tone was slightly softer. Still on edge.
“You don’t know me. I’m Fleur Sebastian. I’m with your brother. We were ambushed and… And…”
“Fleur. It’s okay. Calm down.”
Another cough and Montgomery’s eyes opened. God. They were dilated. A racking sob erupted past my lips, the ache leaving me incapable of breathing.
Footsteps. Lots of them.
Montgomery was choking.
“Your brother is hurt, been shot. I can’t… I’m alone and the police just arrived. He told me to call you.”
“We’re on our way. How is he?”
As I peered down, I pressed my hand against his face. He was so, so damn cold. Another choke. More blood.
“He’s…”
His entire body shook for a few seconds. Then there was nothing. Nothing. I pressed my fingers against his pulse, digging the tips into his skin. Then I did it again. And again.
“No. No! He’s… I think he’s dead.”
I threw my head back and screamed.
The letter.
I couldn’t even remember snatching it from the dashboard before the horrific accident. But I found it hours later after arriving in New Orleans, much of my arrival a blur. There’d been men everywhere, all carrying guns.
All trying to help.
Several days had passed since then. Three. Or so I believed.
