All the remaining cars are FIRE employees. I recognize them. Thankfully, the other offices in our building do summer Fridays. They’ve all been gone since midday. Still, we need to contain this.
This wasn’t an attempted hit. A real hitman wouldn’t have sped by like that. They would have stopped and taken the clean shot. They wanted to cause damage; they wanted to make a headache for FIRE. To attract the wrong kind of attention, have us answering questions.
“I’m coming back up. Grab an ice pack for Charlie,” I tell Oliver.
At this, Oliver begins to rattle off questions, dropping his tactical mode to focus on Charlie. “She’s there? Is she injured? Is she shot?”
“I asked for an ice pack, not an ambulance,” I growl back at him. I should be more understanding. He’s just concerned. I’m still dealing with the adrenaline in my system. This anger is my fight-or-flight response telling me to fight. And I’m fighting the only person I can right now, Oliver.
I disconnect the line and pocket my phone.
“Charlie,” I say as I crouch next to her, “I’m carrying you back into the office.” I narrate my actions so she won’t panic. Her eyelids move; she must be coming to.
I lift her up, my arms under her shoulders and her knees. I grab her huge purse and let it fall to the crook of my elbow.
She rouses as I walk and her arms wrap round my neck. I can’t help but smell her perfume and her shampoo. The hints of strawberry and vanilla calm me, pushing back at the adrenaline that’s been coursing through my system since those first shots rang out.
I glance down at the headstrong woman in my arms. For weeks, all she has done is press my buttons. This horrible attack has forced me to wake up, to see that she is still one of the people I’ve promised to protect. She knows nothing of this world and has been exposed to the worst of it. The ice block of frustration I feel toward her is thawing.
That’s when a fresh wave of grief hits me. X.C. and I were all alone in Osaka. I couldn’t pull him back from the blast. Couldn’t find him in the water after diving back down several times. I couldn’t save him. But today, when it mattered, I did protect Charlie.I’m sorry, X.C., I say to his memory in my mind.
The operations team starts out the office front door; one of the guys holds the door for me. They silently head to the garage to do what they do best. To put things back as best as they can. I give them a nod as they head out. “Garage is empty. You’ll need to tow a few cars for new windows.”
I make my way to the elevator bank and nudge the button with my elbow, careful to not jolt Charlie with the motion.
We enter the elevator together once more. This time, she isn’t willfully ignoring me. She is in my arms. Her strong body is light, easy to hold. Her smooth cheek is pressed against my neck. I could move my head an inch and plant a kiss on her forehead, tell her everything will be alright, but both are too familiar, too intimate. She’s barely conscious; my thoughts should be on my first-aid training.
The elevator dings and the doors open. Ahead of us, Oliver is waiting at the front of the FIRE offices. His face is stricken with worry.
He opens the door for us and immediately I know what he needs to hear. “It’s shock. She wasn’t hit.”
Charlie mumbles something, as Oliver follows us down the hall to his office. I place her as smoothly as I can into her desk chair. I let the purse fall to the ground and some of her things spill out. But that is the least of my worries.
I turn to Oliver as Ian walks up to report. “Ops should have this cleaned up within the hour. They have cones blocking off the entrance to the garage. The two cars that lost their windows belong to Oliver and one of my guys.”
His quick assessment of the damage is helpful. It answers the easy questions.
Now for the one I have wanted to ask since the motorcycle took aim at me: “Who the hell did this?”
15
CHARLIE
“Let’s go over what happened one more time,” Uncle Ollie asks Declan. It all happened so fast – not even ten seconds. It feels like an eternity has passed since Declan scooped me up and carried me back inside. I only lost consciousness for a second or two, but my body was still in shock.
Next thing I know, Ian, Declan, Uncle Ollie, and I are all in his office. Someone got me an ice pack for my hip. I suspect a bruise the size of Declan’s forearms is forming right now. My mind is turning over details that can’t be right.
We were shot at.
Almost run over.
I swear Ahmed, Trey, and some of the other operations guys passed us on the way back in with toolboxes. Declan is explaining everything with a practiced calm. Like this is par for the course.
“I didn’t get the tags; we may need to hack into building security to get the parking garage feeds,” Declan states.
“Probably stolen plates, but worth a shot,” Ian responds.
I’m sitting in the middle of this, wondering how I found myself here. Wondering what the adrenaline and cortisol in my veins right now will do to my muscles. I used to thrive on those two chemicals. Once I was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune condition, I knew I had to cut both out of my life as much as possible. I had my spot on the US team for the World Games and everything, and then bam. My muscles stopped working. Or, more specifically, the fascia. The layer between my skin and muscles became inflamed and angry. I can picture it fighting me again right now. Because this situation is stressful. I figured this job would have run-of-the-mill office stress or meeting-deadlines kind of stress. Not mortal danger levels of it.
