He leaped toward me far faster than I would’ve expected, tackling me into the dresser by the door. Something popped in my shoulder, and I cried out, falling. The pain stole my breath. He elbowed me in the face, and I tried to swing the gun around, but my arm wouldn’t move.
He yanked it out of my hand and head butted me.
Lights flashed behind my eyes. I dodged forward, my only option to tackle him. We went down in a flurry of arms and legs, grunting and struggling to hurt each other. I landed on him and drove my chin into his mouth, splitting both his lips. He screamed and blood burst across my face.
The barrel of the gun pressed against the back of my hip, and I swung out to hit it away.
He grabbed my good arm with his free hand and squeezed.
I lifted a knee and smashed it into his groin, frantically trying to get away from the gun. Cold metal pressed against my side. He howled, trying to get away from my knee. I went on pure animalistic instinct, dropping my chin to his nose as hard as I could. A pop echoed and pain rippled through my head. He yowled and moved, his arm around me and his hand pressing the weapon to the back of my waist. My torso was smashed against his and I needed to get free.
The sound of the gun firing blew through the night. He’d pulled the trigger?
I stiffened.
Pain detonated in my abdomen. I cried out, my body short circuiting. Grasping for my stomach, I rolled off him and kept going until I hit the dresser. Then I shifted up so I could sit, my stomach on fire, my head ringing.
Blood covered his torso. He remained on his back, his eyes wide, his face stark white. His hand, still holding the gun, dropped to the floor. Blood gurgled out of his mouth. Taking one last wheezing breath, he went limp. His pupils dilated. Then the light, the small amount of light, wisped out of those eyes.
I panted, my hand pressed to my side. What had just happened? He’d shot me in the back, but the bullet had gone through me? His entire torso was covered in blood, so I couldn’t tell where the bullet had entered. But it had definitely hit his heart.
Groaning, I planted a bloody hand on the dresser and tried to stand.
The door burst open and Aiden rushed in, followed by Saber. The window over the kitchen counter shattered, and Chelli rolled inside. She was on Aiden’s team and apparently came in the smaller entrances.
Dazed, I slipped back to a seated position.
Aiden rushed for me, dropping to his knees. Blood flowed down his face from a cut above his eye, and bruises were already forming along his temple and down the side of his face. “How bad?” He grasped my sweatshirt and lifted it.
“Dunno.” I was going nicely numb, and I wasn’t fighting it. “He’s dead. Shot us both.” My voice sounded like it came from far away. Very far away.
He grasped my arms. “Angel? Hang in there. Just hold on. An ambulance is coming.” Then he pressed a hand against my side, and agony ripped through my entire body. I futilely tried to slap at his hand, but he didn’t move. The pain was too much. The smell of coppery blood filled my nostrils, and the room spun around me.
This time, I didn’t fight the pull of unconsciousness.
I cameto laying in a hospital bed with Santa at my side, stitching up Aiden’s face. “Santa?” I whispered.
Doc Springfield looked over his shoulder. “You’re awake.” He pressed a bandage over Aiden’s eyebrow and handed the tray off to a young nurse before moving toward me. While he wore a red shirt beneath his white lab coat, he wasn’t in his Santa uniform. “How are you feeling?”
“Great,” I said, the room all fuzzy and sparkly.
“That’s the morphine.” He checked my pupils with a bright light. “You’re looking better.”
I blinked as the night came back to me. “What time is it?”
“Around nine in the morning. You had a calm night. Well, after you were brought into the hospital.”
Morning? Already? I tried to concentrate and remember the night before. “I was shot?”
“Yeah. The bullet scraped your side,” the doctor said. “You needed fifteen stitches, but there was no other damage from the bullet. You do have a dislocated shoulder that is now back in place but will be sore, and I’m fairly certain you have a concussion.” He patted my good shoulder and walked out of the room, his Santa boots squeaking on the sparkling clean floor.
Aiden pushed his chair closer and flopped back down. “How are you?”
“I like morphine,” I said, looking him over. “How are you? You got blown up.”
“Just bruised with no internal damage.” He took my hand, his feeling warm and solid around mine. “I didn’t expect him to make a move until Christmas, and I really didn’t expect him to hire an accomplice or set explosions.”
I gulped and searched for the terror inside me, but all I found were warm fuzzies from the morphine. “Me either,” I slurred. “What happened to his accomplice? I think I remember you shooting him?” The night was a bit of a blur.
