Britta
I couldn’t look away.
My hand was flat against the window, fingers splayed like I could somehow reach through the glass and pull him back inside where it was safe.
WhereIcould breathe.
Below me, State Street had turned into a scene out of one of those breaking news segments.The kind you watch from your couch and think,wow, that’s crazy, while never really believing it could be your life.
Police cars crowded the street, lights flashing in frantic bursts of red and blue that bounced off storefront windows and passing cars.Sirens had died down, but the echo of them still rang in my ears.
People were everywhere.
Standing.
Pointing.
Whispering.
Phones out.
Of course, their phones were out, because apparently watching someone almost get killed wasn’t enough; you had to record it too.
Yellow police tape went up, cutting across the street, officers ushering people back while trying to piece together what had just happened.
And in the middle of it all…
Swift.
Alive, moving, and talking.
My chest tightened.
The police had him now, one officer standing in front of him while another circled slightly to the side, like Swift might suddenly become the problem instead of the guy who’d just been shot at.
His hands moved as he talked—sharp, controlled, pointing down the street, back toward the building, explaining what had happened.
Even from three floors up, I could see the tension in his shoulders.
The way he held himself.
Ready.
Always ready.
God.
He could have—.I swallowed hard and pressed my palm harder into the glass.
He was fine.He was right there.
Then I heard the low, unmistakable rumble of motorcycles.
Four of them.
They rolled in fast and clean, cutting through what was left of the crowd like they owned the street.
And honestly?They kind of did.They parked in a line just outside the police tape, engines cutting one by one.
