“What’s your name?” she asked. “Tell me who you are.” Anything to keep him conscious. She had watched enough television to know staying awake was half the battle. His hand reached for hers again and she gripped his fingers. “It’s okay. I’m here.” She squeezed and tried to infuse him with some of her strength.
His mouth opened, but before he could answer, a shadow fell over them.
“Ma’am, get out of the way. Move!”
She looked up into the face of a man built like a warrior. Broad shoulders, long hair slicked back, eyes scanning the area and seeing everything. His stance was one of danger and alertness, with a definite no-nonsense vibe.
“He keeps asking for Lars. I don’t dare move him but he’s been shot with an arrow.” As if that wasn’t obvious.
“Move.” This time it was sharper and with an urgent tone that brooked no argument.
“No!” she shot back, squeezing the man’s hand. “You want to get him help, right? We need to wait for an ambulance. And find this Lars. I’m not just letting him…”
“I’m Lars, dammit. Now move.”
A low groan from beneath her cut her off. The injured man’s fingers curled weakly around her own.
“It's okay,” he murmured, his voice weak and ragged. The small squeeze wasn’t strong, but it traveled through her like an electrical current with an unspoken permission that he was safe with the warrior man.
The warrior knelt down and took the man’s head. “We’ve got him. Now go.”
Before she could argue again, two more men appeared. They moved with the practiced speed of a team. One pulled her away and the other helped lift the injured man. One of them grabbed the arrow. Bryn was helped to her feet and then ignored as they carried the man toward an SUV parked next to the original car.
“Where are you going?” she called. “Wait for an ambulance.”
“We can get him help quicker.”
“Wait…” she tried, but they had reached the SUV and slammed the doors. “Where are you taking him?”
She ran toward the vehicle. She wanted to tell him to hold on. That she’d find him.
But then they were gone. She watched until the SUV disappeared from sight.
She didn’t know how long she stood there before someone touched her elbow.
“Ma’am?” A police officer in an official, yet drab, uniform guided her toward the terminal entrance, his tone calm but brisk. “We need your statement.”
She followed him numbly to where a makeshift command post had been set up just inside the entrance. There were several officers with clipboards and even more milling around. Her brain felt several seconds behind her body and she almost missed the officer commending her bravery.
“Who are you again?” she heard herself ask.
“I’m Director Coben, ma’am, but please, call me Coben. And you are?”
She gave her name. “Can I please go use the ladies’ room?” She held up her blood-streaked hand.
He nodded and sent her off. She washed her hands a few times and sighed when she looked in the mirror. Her jacket was beyond saving. Blood had soaked into the sleeve and she knew it wasn’t coming out.
“Guess it’s a good thing I needed a new coat.”
She washed her hands one final time when she realized her ring was gone. A stab of pain poked her heart. That ring is what had gotten her through life.
“Did anyone find a ring?” she asked Coben when she returned.
“A ring?”
“I had a ring that I bought myself as a…” As a what? A good luck charm? A goodbye gift? A witchcraft talisman? “A ring I bought myself that must have gotten bloody and slipped off.”
Coben spoke into a radio. “I’ll let you know.”
