I nod, forgetting that he can’t see me through the phone. Scotty groans, trying to sit up. I press my free hand to the bullet wound and shove him back to the ground. “Stop fucking moving.”
Scotty grumbles, making sure I’m aware of his irritation. “Jesus, you’re bossy.”
My eyes widen. “How are you still talking?”
“Griffin? What’s going on?” Paddy asks, his voice elevated.
“Nothing. Scotty is a horrible patient.”
“I’m going to hang up so I can call Callum. You’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Wait, how are you going to tell him where we are?”
The silence tells me everything I need to know. The fucker’s been tracking me. Which, I guess, makes sense, considering Scotty’s been following me the past six weeks. “Do you have a tracking device on me?”
“I’ve got to call Callum, Griff. I can’t get to you. Camille fell and I’m in New York,” Paddy says, ending the call while also conveniently avoiding the topic.
Fuck. I turn my attention to Scotty, my hand pressing on his chest. “How is he tracking me?” I ask, wanting to toss my phone in case that’s the culprit. “Is my phone bugged?”
Scotty sucks in a painful breath. “Griffin? Now’s not the time to discuss the toxicity of your relationship.”
“You’re right,” I nod, glancing at the blood on my hands. “We need to stop the bleeding.”
“Probably,” he agrees. He grunts, shifting around. “There’s a warehouse a few blocks away. Callum will take Haley there. We just need to hold on until we can get there.”
“Paddy said he’s sending a crew. How long does that take?” I ask.
“Depends who’s closest. Hopefully only a few more minutes. Rian only lives a block away, so if he’s home, he should be here.”
Keeping pressure on his wound, I use my other hand to check his pulse. His heart rate isn’t dropping yet. The blood, while it’s a lot, isn’t as much as I’ve seen when the heart is struck. He could definitely survive this wound. Especially if his phone slowed the force of the bullet. There’s no exit wound, so the bullet could be lodged in his sternum.
I’m not religious, but I pray it hasn’t struck a vital artery or organ.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when a stampede of steps sound behind me, and I tense up. Please let that be the calvary and not the enemy. Otherwise I’m looking at an execution. One to the damn head. And that would really restrict the ability to look good one last time in an open casket while my family pays their respects.
“Michael,” someone says from behind me.
I turn my head, coming face to face with not one, but three men. My neck cranes to take them in. A redhead and two blondes. Definitely Irish. I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
One guy nods toward another. “We got it from here. You did a good job.”
Two of them bend, grabbing Scotty and removing my hands from his chest. “I’m coming with you,” I say.
The redhead nods. “Yeah, man. You’re covered in blood. Murphys wouldn’t want you wandering around gaining attention.” His Boston accent is thicker than mine. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his jeans, offering me a stick.
“Nah,” I say. Nicotine on an empty stomach when my adrenaline is at an unimaginable high is not what I want to be doing right now. I’ll upchuck before I get a buzz.
I’m running after the men while they carry Scotty to wherever the fuck they’re going. “Scotty. You’re going to be okay,” I say, though I’m not sure if I believe it myself.
Chaosensueswhenwearrive at the warehouse. A group of men hang around inside. I’m not sure how it works, but I’d say there must be some kind of paging system to let everyone know a person’s injured. I can’t think of any other way everyone would know and be here so fast. The only way news could travel this fast is if they had a telephone tree line like the wives did at church growing up. Someone was always in the know, chitchatting and spreading the gossip before the truth could be told. The speed information gets out now with texts has to be immensely faster.
We’re in a building that looks abandoned from the outside, situated on the outskirts of the neighborhood. The inside is clean and renovated, and they have a makeshift hospital set up in the basement. Super creepy, horror movie vibes, if you ask me. But no one does.
Haley’s pacing in the basement, already in a surgical gown when we make it down the stairs. Her eyes lock on me, worry plastered all over her face as she gives me a quick once over to make sure I’m not injured. It only takes a couple of seconds, but when she’s satisfied that I’m not injured, she rushes toward the bed that Scotty’s being laid on.
It doesn’t take her long to bark demands. The foot soldiers follow her without hesitation. She’s gloved and ready to go, standing at Scotty’s side. “Griffin, get over here.”
My footsteps falter, the nerves catching up to me. We’re about to operate together like back in our military days. I’ve worked so hard to shut this side of me off from my life. The memories in my life are compartmentalized, stuffed into a shoe box, and placed in the back of the closet.
