Do No Harm

by Christina McDonald

  I felt like I was running in water. My limbs weren’t moving fast enough. The world had slowed down.

  Gabe was right behind me, his breathing heavy. We’d just hurtled around the last corner when I slipped on a patch of wet gravel. The world was suddenly upside down. And then I slammed hard into the ground, my palms scraping against it as I tried to break my fall. I rolled instinctively onto my back, the impact punching the air from my lungs.

  The flashlight clattered onto the ground. Stars pierced my vision as I lay on my back, stunned. Snowflakes floated, tiny feathers dancing in the wind, as if someone had ripped open a pillow and flung the stuffing around. Dampness soaked into my jeans, muddying my coat.

  A voice came to me from very far away.

  “Emma!”

  It was Moira.

  Miraculously, I was still clutching the phone in my hand.

  “What was that!”

  I pressed End and scrambled to my feet, tension strung tight through my entire body. Pain flared in my knees, and when I looked down, my palms were bloody.

  Josh.

  Josh had collapsed.

  But Nate was inside the warehouse, and I had no idea who had fired that shot. He could be in danger.

  It was a horrible choice, one I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Leave my husband, who was very possibly in danger from my own brother—or turn away from my son, who definitely was in danger? But Josh was in the hospital. He had doctors and nurses and Moira to care for him. I had to go to Nate.

  I shoved my phone in my pocket and pulled the Glock from my ankle holster, surprised on some weird, slightly unhinged level that it was still there. I checked the ammo clip, sliding it into place with a click.

  Gabe’s eyes widened when he saw the gun. He stepped away from me. “Emma, what the—?”

  “Shhh,” I hissed. “Get the flashlight.”

  Looking terrified, he complied, snatching it up.

  We moved carefully across the icy ground toward the warehouse’s open door.

  And then the crack of another gunshot rang out.

  CHAPTER 40

  “DROP IT!” NATE SHOUTED. “Drop the weapon!”

  The smell of sulfur filled the warehouse. The ensuing silence echoed almost as loud as the gunshot itself.

  Nate kept his gun trained on the man. The sound of Ben moaning yanked his attention across the warehouse. Ben was on his knees clutching the side of his head. Blood spurted from between his fingers.

  “He fucking shot me,” Ben moaned.

  “I’ll shoot you again if you don’t tell me why you killed him!” the man—Nate had no idea who he was—shouted. He had greasy dark hair tied back in a ponytail, angry eyes, mouth twisted in a grimace. His neck was more ink than skin.

  “I didn’t!” Ben wailed. “I swear!”

  Feeble rays of light from the lantern on the floor next to him turned his skin a sickly yellow.

  “I said, drop your weapon! Now!” Nate repeated.

  “No!” the man shouted. The inked veins in his neck pulsed, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “I’ve finally found him; I’m not gonna stop until he tells me the truth.”

  “Okay.” Nate recognized a man on the brink when he saw one. “Then tell me who you think he killed.”

  “He killed my brother.”

  “Your brother?”

  The man turned and fully met Nate’s eye. “Yeah, my brother. Santiago Martinez.”

  Nate’s breath caught. “Ben killed him?”

  “It couldn’ta been no one else! We worked together, dealing the same shit. His guys, they deal out here; my guys, we’re in Seattle. Santiago told me he was working for some task force agent. They had him on a drug charge and the only way out for him was to rat his guys out. He told me so I could get out before he did it. He thought Violeta heard him on the phone with the agent, and right after that Santiago turns up dead, and then Violeta turns up dead. Ben did them both.”

  “I didn’t do it!” Ben shouted. “I thought Violeta killed Santiago!”

  “She didn’t do it, puto cabrón! We went together to Santiago’s house to get the fentanyl. She was with me when we found him!”

  Nate was so stunned he almost lowered his weapon. “Then who killed Santiago?”

  A sound drew his attention to the door.

  Emma? What the hell?

  And Gabe Wilson was right behind her. His wife’s jeans were wet and muddy, leaves clinging to her hat and coat. She had a gun clutched in her hand.

  Nate’s eyes widened. What was she doing here, and where had she gotten a weapon?

  Emma’s arrival was the brief distraction Carlos needed. He squeezed the trigger, pointing his gun first at Nate, then at Ben.

  Nate threw himself to the ground.

  “Get down!” he shouted at Emma.

  He dropped and rolled to hide behind a steel barrel, but popped up again almost immediately. Carlos was sprinting across the warehouse, his gaze trained on Ben. He lifted his gun, readying to shoot Ben in the head. Ben’s eyes widened, then squeezed shut, as if preparing for his final moment.

  “Stop!” Emma raised her gun while still on her knees.

  But Nate squeezed the trigger first.

  Carlos staggered backward as two bullets hit his chest.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  He crumpled to the ground.

  “Don’t move!” Nate shouted at Emma and Gabe. “Stay where you are.”

  Nate hurried to where Carlos lay and kicked the gun out of his reach. He scooped it up and shoved it in the back of his pants for safekeeping, then checked Carlos’s pulse.

  Dead.

  Nate’s heart was pounding from adrenaline, a raw, manic throb. He inhaled in slow, measured breaths, trying to still his heart. It had been a long time since he’d discharged his weapon.

  He mentally began making a list of things he needed to do: call for backup; call Special Agents Hamilton and Greene; cordon off the scene. He thought of the poker chip he’d found and how it fit into this whole messed-up puzzle: Emma, Ben, Gabe, Santiago Martinez, Violeta Williams, the drugs, the murders. And he knew. He didn’t know why, but he sure as hell knew who was running this show.

  “That’s the man who’s been following me.” Emma stared at Carlos’s body, her gun now hanging by her side.

  “He thought Ben killed his brother.” Nate pried Ben’s hands away from his head to assess how bad the wound was. The bullet had ripped his ear off, leaving just a bloody stump. “He was probably trying to get to him by following you.”

  He glanced at Emma’s gun again, recognized the shock settling across her face. “Why don’t you set that gun down, Em? Kick it over to me.”

  Ben moaned. Nate turned to look at him. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a flesh wound. You’re lucky the bullet only got your ear, not your damn head.”

  He yanked his handcuffs from his belt and cuffed Ben. The adrenaline was draining from him suddenly, leaving him furious and aware of a bone-deep chill. His fingertips were red-raw, the bitter air gnawing at his exposed skin.

  Snow was falling heavier now, a barrage of white blowing in through the open door.

  Emma handed the gun to Gabe and wrenched her hat off, dropping to her knees next to Ben.

  “Give me your tie,” she told Nate.

  He ripped it off and handed it to her. She used it to tie her balled-up hat against Ben’s ear. Her movements were brisk, businesslike, her face betraying no emotion. But then she glanced up at him and her face softened, a raw vulnerability there that made him ache.

  Nate suddenly thought of all the things that could’ve happened to her, how close she’d come to being shot. He could’ve lost her. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to reassure himself she was still here, she was safe.

  And he understood then that people weren’t morally infallible. Not his wife. Not his father. Not himself. He understood why she’d done what she’d done.

  I love you, he opened his mouth to say. I love how
much you love our family, the lengths you’ll go to to protect us.

  But Ben’s agonized moan interrupted.

  Nate turned to him. “Were you telling the truth? You didn’t kill Martinez?”

  “No! Fuck, man! Could you just call an ambulance or something? I’m bleeding to death here!”

  “Nate! We need to call nine-one-one!” Emma said sharply.

  Gabe hovered on the periphery, looking uncertain, the gun Emma had given him now hanging limply from his fingers.

  “Then who killed Santiago Martinez?” Nate looked between them. Gabe. Ben. Emma. The body of Carlos Martinez. “And where did you get the fentanyl?”

  CHAPTER 41

  “WE NEED TO GET to the hospital,” I told Nate. “It’s Josh. Your mom called. Something’s gone wrong with the treatment—he had a seizure.” I looked at Ben. “And Ben needs to get to the ER. He’s losing a lot of blood.”

  Nate pulled his phone out and started to dial.

  “Stop!” Gabe shouted.

  He was pointing my gun at Nate. Nate slowly raised his hands.

  “Gabe, what are you doing?” I hissed. “Put the gun down.”

  “No!” he said. His eyes darted wildly around the warehouse. “All of this will be for nothing if we let him call the cops. Don’t you see? They’ll find everything we have here. We’ll go to jail.”

  “He is the cops. Don’t you get it? It’s over for us!”

  “No. I’m not getting arrested. I’ll lose my gas station. Your career will be over. We won’t be able to get the money for Josh.”

  I froze. I had to be very careful what I said right now.

  “Gabe, listen to me,” I said, speaking very slowly. “We have to get to the hospital. My son is very sick. Remember?”

  The gun trembled in Gabe’s grasp. I thought about trying to grab it from him, but he was too far away. Nate was farther behind me still, and Ben was on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his back. I took a tiny step toward Gabe, one hand held out.

  “Gabe. It’s Gabe, right?” Nate’s voice was too strong, too loud in this empty space. I wanted to tell him to be quiet, to stop talking. His police negotiation tactics wouldn’t work right now. Not with Gabe. But he kept on speaking. “You’ve known Ben for a long time. Look at him. He’s losing a lot of blood. We need to get some help. Why don’t you just put down the gun? Everything’s going to be a lot worse for you if you hurt somebody.”

  Gabe’s face hardened at the underlying threat.

  “Gabe. Look at me. We need to think about Josh.” I took another step toward him.

  Gabe’s eyes were hot on mine.

  “Please.”

  Finally he nodded. He dropped his hand abruptly, but turned to Nate. “I’m not doing this for you,” he said roughly. “I’m doing it for my son.”

  Nate’s eyes flickered in confusion. My heart nearly stopped beating.

  “No,” I whispered.

  Nate looked between us. “Your s—?” He took a half step back, stumbling away from me. The betrayal on his face sent ice scattering across my spine. “Josh is…?”

  “No!” I exclaimed. I reached for Nate’s hand. It was cold, limp in mine. He stared at my fingers as if he’d never seen them before. “No! Of course not. Josh is your son. You know that!”

  “What the hell?” Gabe’s voice was a question. A warning. “What are you talking about? You said he was mine.”

  I turned to Gabe and inhaled deeply. When I’d found out I was pregnant, my first thought was of Gabe. We’d slept together shortly before I met Nate, so I assumed it was Gabe’s baby. I didn’t want to deceive Nate, to move in with him, let alone marry him, if I was pregnant with another man’s baby. So I’d ordered a prenatal paternity test.

  But even before the results came back saying Nate was the father, I knew what I was going to do. I had no intention of letting Gabe near my baby. I chose to marry Nate because he was a good, decent man. The kind of man who would always put his family first. I loved him in a way I’d never come close to loving Gabe.

  “I’m so sorry, Gabe. I lied to you. I knew you would only help me if you thought Josh was yours.”

  He stared at me, dumbfounded. “But the paternity test…”

  “It matched Nate. I’m sorry.” I turned to Nate. “Gabe and I were together before I met you. I did a prenatal paternity test, and it matched you. I have it at home. It’s in the bottom of my jewelry box.”

  Gabe’s mouth widened into a silent O. “You… lied… to me.” He rubbed a hand over his face, like he was trying to wake himself from a bad dream.

  “I know. I’m so sorry. I needed your help.”

  “All of this—everything I did was for you. For him. The drugs. Violeta. Beatrice.”

  “Beatrice?”

  “She was going to the cops. We had to stop her.”

  “We?”

  Gabe’s eyes darted to Ben’s. A look crossed between them, and Ben shook his head, a short, sharp jerk.

  “Who?” I insisted.

  I took another step closer to Gabe.

  “You fucking—fucking—” He seemed lost for words, ripped apart by hurt and grief and then, when he met my eyes, by an incandescent fury that hollowed him out and then filled him up.

  “This is your fault!” Gabe lifted the gun just as I leaped for him.

  We tumbled to the ground in a heap of arms and legs. But Gabe was stronger than me. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my face into the wooden floor. Fireworks sparked behind my eyes. A dizzying pain crashed into me as the cartilage in my nose made a wet crunch. The taste of copper gushed into my mouth, and I went limp.

  “Let her go!” Nate’s voice came to me from somewhere far away. His gun was trained on Gabe.

  Gabe snaked an arm around my throat and yanked me to my feet, using my body as a shield. The pressure from the crook of his arm squeezed tighter and tighter, the gun pointed at Nate. My breath was trapped in my chest, leaden and blazing. Pressure built inside me, burning, swelling in my rib cage.

  I flailed weakly against him. I caught sight of the stack of wooden two-by-fours leaning against the wall. I twisted, trying to grab one, but missed. I gasped for air, clawing at Gabe’s arm.

  I didn’t mind dying if Josh lived. If he could grow up and go to his senior prom and go to college and meet a girl, get married, have a child of his own, and know the depths a parent would go to for their child.

  So I did the opposite of what every instinct screamed at me to do—I stopped fighting. My body abruptly became a deadweight in Gabe’s arm. He stumbled forward, releasing the pressure on my neck ever so slightly.

  I gasped, inhaling cool, soothing breaths of air. Then I dug my heels into the ground and shoved myself back, ramming into Gabe as hard as I could. We flew backward, slamming into the wall.

  He grunted, the impact knocking the breath from him, and his arm relaxed. I twisted out of his grasp and lunged away from him.

  Gabe raised the gun one last time. He stood straight-backed, his arm a perfect arrow. I reached for a two-by-four and turned, ready to hurl it at him, but the gun was trained on my chest. Gabe’s eyes on mine were expressionless.

  “Emma!” Nate jumped toward me.

  Everything slowed down, with the sharp, dark quality of a nightmare, but I couldn’t stop it.

  The sound of the gun firing ricocheted throughout the warehouse.

  The silence was suddenly, terrifyingly vast. I opened my eyes and looked down. There was no pain. No blood. Nothing.

  Nothing but Nate.

  The bullet had struck him when he’d leaped in front of me. Blood bloomed in a scarlet rose on his chest.

  Nate sank to his knees and slumped onto his back.

  “Nate!” The two-by-four in my hand clattered to the floor.

  I scrambled to Nate’s side and pressed my palms to his chest. My hands were instantly warmed by his blood, pulsing from the raw open wound. “No, no, no, no, no!”

  Gabe dropped the gun, shocked. It fe
ll to the cement floor with a horrible thud. And then he turned and ran.

  Blood gurgled from Nate’s mouth, spilled out of his lips and down his chin as he tried to speak.

  “Baby, stay with me!” I cried.

  But he was already leaving me. I could see it in his eyes, the way they were fading. I’d seen it before when my dad died, his head propped on my lap the same way Nate’s was.

  “No! No! Please! Nate, I love you! I love you so much.”

  Nate squeezed my hand, pressed something cold and smooth into it. Slowly, ever so slowly, he drew an X over his heart.

  And then his arm went limp. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling.

  I pressed shaking fingers to his throat, but the reassuring thump of my husband’s pulse was no longer there.

  “Come back!” I screamed. “Nate, come back to me!”

  But he was gone.

  CHAPTER 42

  I SAT WITH NATE’S head on my lap, tears streaming down my cheeks. A horrible, surreal sense of déjà vu draped over me. Shock had left me numb but reeling, unmoored from everything.

  My insides turned to liquid.

  Nate was dead.

  And it was my fault. If only I hadn’t started selling these drugs with Gabe. If only I hadn’t lied to him about Josh. If only, if only, if only, Nate would still be alive.

  Grief squeezed my guts so viciously I almost threw up. I wanted to lie down in the pool of his blood, to curl myself around Nate’s body and never get up.

  I told myself to stop crying. Nothing good came from crying. Hadn’t I learned that long ago? Only helplessness, and that didn’t change a thing. But I couldn’t stop. The tears kept falling, dripping onto Nate’s perfect face.

  I became suddenly aware of something in my left hand. It was the object Nate had pressed into my palm. It took me a few seconds to place it. When I did, a horrible tightness cinched in my stomach, looping and squeezing until I could no longer gasp a full breath.

  The back of the black-and-white poker chip was engraved with my father’s initials, JH: Dr. Joshua Hardman. We’d named Josh after him when we found out our baby was going to be a boy.

  What I couldn’t understand was why Nate would have this poker chip on him when he died.