“Shite!” I jumped off the robber’s prone form, kicking his gun away, before rushing toward the big man, dropping to my knees beside him. “Yer hit?” I asked, fishing my mobile out of my pocket and hitting speed dial for 911 as blood began to ooze through his fingers. “Let me see,” I urged as the call connected.
“911. What is your emergency?”
“There’s been a shooting. I need an ambulance. I’m FBI and I’m on the scene. Shooter is contained,” I rattled off, giving her the name of the shop and the cross streets since I didn’t know the exact address.
“I’m dispatching an ambulance and LAPD backup, right now, Agent,” the operator said, correctly clocking my title. “Please stay on the line until officers arrive.”
I looked back at the man who still hadn’t moved his uninjured hand, though blood seeped through his fingers. “I need to see the wound. Please move ya hand.” He met my gaze with an unreadable expression. “Please,” I pleaded, knowing in the back of my mind that he’d been shot because of my foolishness. “I need to see it.”
He didn’t move. “It’s not arterial.”
I was taken aback. “How do ya know that? Are ya a doctor?” The very idea of it was impossible to believe, but I’d seen stranger things. In Afghanistan, our medics often looked just as disheveled as this guy as they made their way from one wounded man to the next on the battlefield, patching up both soldiers and Marines or triaging them in hospital. This, however, wasn’tAfghanistan, though there were days when I believed Hollywood could be mistaken for a battlefield of a different kind.
The stranger shook his head. “Let me see the wound,” I repeated. Another head shake as he stared at me with those oddly colored eyes.
“It’s a graze,” he said.
I knewthatwasn’t true. I’d seen enough bullet wounds in my life to know a graze from one which was bleeding through a coat and seeping through fingers. Indignation rose up in me. I needed to know how bad it was even though he was probably right about it not being an arterial wound which would have soaked half his sleeve by now. “Please, let me see.”
He stared for a few seconds more before ever so slowly moving his hand. I reached for the tear in his sleeve, bending to look closer. To my relief—thank the Holy Mother—the hole in his bicep was, as he’d said, not arterial. It would still need to be tended since most bullets were covered with bacteria which could, and most probably would, cause a serious infection if left untreated. If there was no exit wound, the projectile would have to be removed and the wound flushed, followed by a strong shot of penicillin as well as a tetanus boost.
Since the guy didn’t look—nor smell—too clean, I was willing to bet he didn’t live in a sterile environment either. I nodded, looking up to meet his eyes. The expression in them was cautious as he seemed to be studying me as hard as I’d looked at the wound. I reached for his free hand and placed it back over the wound.
“Put pressure on it. An ambulance is on the way. Stay here while I check on the others.” At his nod, I stood and walked over to the gunman. When I was satisfied that he was still out cold, Ipicked up his gun and tucked it into the waistband of my sweats before going to the counter.
“Rami…Raj…it’s safe to come out.” Both men appeared, standing to their full heights. Raj was shaking and he leaned against Rami who instantly wrapped his shoulders with one arm. He spoke quietly to him in Punjabi and then turned to me.
“Thank you, Patsy. You saved our lives,” Rami said.
Raj nodded fiercely, still leaning heavily against his brother. “Yes, thank you, Patsy,” he said, glancing up at me under dark lashes. The tinkling of the bell over the door drew my attention, and the moment I turned to look, I was surprised to see the wounded man disappearing through it. The hulking stranger I’d left sitting on the ground, was jogging through the car park away from the shop.
“Feck’s sake!” I shouted, running toward the door, wrenching it open just as the wail of approaching sirens sounded. I ran out onto the pavement to shout at the stranger who’d vanished into the dark, swallowed by shadows. “Bloody hell!” I cursed, turning to go back inside.
Rami and Raj hadn’t moved and neither had the unconscious robber. I ran over to the counter. “Who was that man?”
“That’s Weston,” Rami said, craning his neck to look out into the empty lot as Raj nodded and pulled away from his brother.
“Weston?”
“Yes,” Raj replied.
“Is that a first name or surname?”
Both men sent me coordinated shrugs. “Just Weston,” Rami said. “That’s all we know.”
The sound of sirens got very loud as two police cars roared into the lot, coming to a screeching halt. I pulled my wallet out and flipped it open to show my ID, wishing I’d brought my FBI creds with me as well. I reached into my waistband and took out the robber’s weapon, laying it on the counter between the brothers and myself. Four officers rushed into the store moments later, guns drawn.
“FBI!” I shouted, holding up both my hands, waving my wallet. I pointed to the man lying where I’d left him. “That’s ya robber.” I turned and pointed at the gun. “That’s his weapon.”
Two of the officers approached, still brandishing their weapons as I held my wallet out to the first one. “Sorry I don’t have my FBI credentials,” I explained. “Feel free to run my ID. I wasn’t plannin’ on this when I came out to buy a bottle of ZzzQuil.”
The officer holstered his gun and took my wallet with a nod, glancing at my driver’s license and speaking into the radio on his shoulder. He walked away, presumably to run my name and check me out while the second officer kept his weapon trained on me until his partner returned. “Agent Good?” he asked, handing back my wallet.
I gave him my best smile, nodding. “Aye. That I am.”
He nodded, as his partner holstered his gun. A third officer walked over. He stared at me critically, looking me up and down. “Are you injured? You called for a bus.”
I shook my head. “There was another customer here.” I pointed to the man on the ground. “That bastard shot him in the arm.” The officers looked around before returning their regard to me.
