by Misty Evans
The woman’s body froze for an instant before she went limp.
With another growl, Emma wrestled the body off of her and came up to her knees, then her feet. She tasted blood and wiped at her lip. The back of her hand came away red.
Chris watched her, more curious than scared, in a wide-legged stance with his arms crossed over his chest. “God, I hate cyborgs. You’re a bitch to kill.”
“Fuck you.” There was one bullet lying just across the threshold, but even if she dove for it, Chris would still have plenty of time to knock her out or kill her before she could get it loaded into the gun.
She could scream her lungs out, but Mitch and the others probably wouldn’t hear her from so far away, and if they did, they still couldn’t get to her in time, could they?
She toyed with the S&W, rubbing a thumb over the stock as she stared Chris down. He didn’t appear to have a weapon. Maybe if she jumped him and started swinging, she could knock him out like she had Linda. He only outweighed her by oh, fifty pounds…
Chris clucked his tongue. He didn’t seem to care that his cohort was down, that federal agents were only a few hundred yards away. “Why do you believe there is only one reality, Dr. Collins? We can create as many realities as we want. Don’t you see? We can be and do anything we want.”
Was this part of his delusions or part of his act? Did he actually believe he was Tom Monahan or was he pretending so he could claim insanity again if he was caught?
Emma honestly wasn’t sure anymore.
“I have to kill you,” Chris continued, “and all the people—and those stupid animals—that you care about.”
Pretend. Go along with him. You need that bullet…
Her heart was still tripping over itself, but she forced herself to take a slow, steady breath. She purposely slumped her shoulders, allowed tears to well in her eyes. It wasn’t hard, really, when she thought about the people he’d already harmed because of her.
For a long moment, she simply stood and looked dejected, channeling her own inner actress. “You’re right, Chris. I mean, Tom. I’ve been in denial, but I understand now. I’m tired. I don’t want to fight anymore.”
She took a wary step toward him, felt a small sense of relief when he didn’t tense or take on a defense posture. Forcing herself to give him her practiced, professional smile, she let the gun dangle at her side as she crossed the threshold into the bedroom and stopped, her little toe next to the bullet. “No one else needs to get hurt. I give up. What is it you want me to do?”
Nothing in his face changed, but she saw his pupils dilate. He was in exploitation mode—in control once again.
He held out his hand. “Give me the gun, cyborg.”
Cyborg. It almost made her laugh. Maybe Mitch was right. Maybe everyone was right and she was wrong. Chris Goodsman was a nutcase.
She had no choice. She was going to have to jump him. If she handed him the weapon, she was done.
Hesitantly, she held out the S&W, not enough for him to reach it, but enough to make him think he’d won. “Don’t hurt anyone else, okay? I’ll come with you. I’ll do whatever you want. You can kill me in front of your Resistance fighters if you want. Show them what a great leader you are.”
The words made her want to gag—she was a terrible actress and couldn’t believe when Chris took the bait, stepping forward. “I’d hoped you would see the light.”
“I do. I see the light now,” she lied. Come on, come on. Closer…
Just as he touched the gun, ready to take it from her, she let go of an ear-piercing scream and swung it at his head.
He must have anticipated it, because he ducked to the side, the gun barely grazing his ear.
But Emma’s body was in motion and she tackled him, knocking him onto the bed. His elbow connected with her temple, pain exploding behind her left eye.
Her arm had its own agenda, like it had with Linda, rising up and pummeling him with the gun again, this time, making contact with his hand as he bought it up to block the attack.
She heard a bone crack, the force of his hand driving hers and the gun back several inches. He didn’t seem fazed, grabbing her by the throat and squeezing.
Spots danced in her peripheral vision as she scratched at his vise grip with her free hand. An evil grin split his face as he squeezed tighter, lifting her off his chest. She couldn’t breathe, her hand on the gun loosening.
Rage poured through her again, burning in her veins and lighting her up from within. With her free hand, she reached down and clawed at his grin, her already bloody nails digging into his movie-star handsome face.
With a yelp, he threw her off to the side. She hit the edge of the bed, rolled, and belly-flopped onto the floor.
Her ribs cried out in pain and she gasped for air, coaxing her throat to work. Above her, Chris swore loudly, calling her names, the bed bouncing as his weight shifted to come after her.
Move!
That’s when she spotted the two bullets. Under the bed.
Knocking part of the draping sheet out of the way, Emma scooted under the box spring and reached for a bullet.
“What the fuck?” she heard Chris say as she flipped open the chamber.
Her fingers shook so bad, she dropped the bullet. Twice. The shadows under the bed made it difficult to see. In her peripheral vision, however, Chris’s booted feet weren’t.
He dropped onto his knees, throwing the sheet back and bending down to eye her, that awful grin on his face again. The bullet slipped around in her fingers, her throat sucked air, making her wheeze.
The added light from Chris lifting the sheet landed on something under the bed she hadn’t noticed until now.
A dozen or so green Tom Monahan Resistance soldiers, some in a line, others fallen over as if a child had just been playing with them, sat like a prop in a movie.
Oh my God, he was here, under my bed. Chris Goodsman had been under her bed playing with toy soldiers.
For how long? The possibilities filled with her revulsion.
A hand slid toward her. “Come here, you little bitch.”
Emma’s fingers stopped their shaking. The bullet slid home into the chamber with a satisfying clink. She flicked the cylinder closed and aimed at Chris the same moment as he lunged and grabbed her leg.
She hollered, her body shifting as he dragged her toward him, her arm flying off target.
She righted her arm, aimed once more as he tugged her legs out from under the bed.
One shot. Don’t blow it!
Taking a deep breath, Emma imagined the eye of the bird on the can she had shot only a few days ago under Mitch’s tutelage. Let everything else fall away.
As Chris pulled her the rest of the way out from under the bed, Emma pulled the trigger.
Chapter Twenty-one
Mitch heard the gunshot and his heart stopped.
Emma.
Not only had Cooper and the others arrived, so had the county sheriff’s CSI techs—finally—and a woman claiming she was Emma’s veterinarian. Will had vouched for the doctor, and she had started rounding up the horses, saying she would help Will care for them until Emma could come home from the safe house.
Mitch’s feet moved on their own accord, sprinting for the house, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
The dogs barked behind him, people yelled at him. He had the sense that the dogs and several of the men—Cooper, Nelson, and Will—were following.
In the distance, he heard the solid whap-whap-whap of a helicopter’s blades.
Or maybe that was his heart, a heavy, bass drum pounding out dread.
The long lane was full of mud-filled ruts. Mitch hopped some, ran straight through the larger ones. He tore past the juvie van, catching a whiff of the dead man inside, all of his senses heightened and firing off messages his brain didn’t like.
“Emma!” he yelled, hitting the door into the kitchen.
The dogs ran past him as he hesitated and glanced toward the mudroom, the pantry. He
kept hauling.
Living room. Nope. No Emma. Broken glass still covered the floor, bullets embedded in the walls.
The other men hit the kitchen as Mitch tore up the stairs. His gun was already in his hand, sweat mixed with rain running down the back of his neck. “Emma!”
“In here,” he heard her soft voice calling from her bedroom.
His muddy boots skidded on the wood floor as he tried to stop his forward projection on the landing. He nearly slid right past the bedroom door. Salt and Pepper came to stand on either side of him as Mitch finally righted himself in the doorway.
“Jesus,” was all he could say at the sight that met his eyes.
Emma sat in her underwear on the side of her bed, staring down at a man with a bullet hole between his eyebrows. Blood pooled under the man’s head as his unseeing eyes stared up at the ceiling.
Chris Goodsman.
She raised her gaze to Mitch, her body teetering uncertainly, her face as white as Salt’s fur. She stuck out a hand to balance herself and Mitch saw the gun lying next to her. “He was under the bed, playing with his Tom Monahan figurines.”
She shivered hard, her face filled with revulsion.
“Jesus,” he said again.
He walked into the room, eager to get to her, but checked Goodsman for weapons first. The man had a camping knife on a belt around his waist, but didn’t appear to have anything else.
The dogs stayed in the doorway, noses lifted at the scent of blood. Salt growled low and deep in her throat. The other men clattered up the stairs, and Cooper yelled, “Holden?”
“First room on your left,” he called, turning to Emma, the body still between them. “Are you all right?”
Emma reached over and pulled a blanket toward her. “I’m…”
A scream split the air, a banshee cry if Mitch had ever heard one. He jerked toward the bathroom to see a flash of brown clothes, frizzy hair, and a lifted arm coming at Emma full-throttle.
“What have you done?” the banshee screamed.
The glint of light on metal, the arc of the knife slicing through the air.
Everything went into slow motion. Mitch jumped across Goodsman’s body, throwing himself toward the bed, but Emma—strong, determined, protective Emma—was already up, gun in hand, as Linda brought the knife down.
For some reason, Emma threw the gun at Brown instead of firing. The gun hit the knife, sending the knife off center, but Brown instantly counterbalanced, whirled in a martial arts circle and drove the knife into Emma’s chest.
“No!” Mitch hollered, firing his own weapon and hitting Brown square in the throat.
Two other shots were fired as well, Brown’s body jerking from Cooper’s and Nelson’s bullets.
She was dead before she hit the floor.
“Emma.” Mitch fell to his knees beside her.
The knife was lodged deep, up and under her left ribcage. Blood gushed down her stomach, her side.
Her eyes were wide, staring up at him as she tried to say something. He sensed Cooper and Nelson moving into the room, pulling Brown and Goodsman aside, shoving the bed out of the way. From the doorway, Will said, “I’ll get Doc Jane.”
Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Women’s voices down in the kitchen. “What’s going on? Who’s hurt?”
Nelson moved in beside Mitch. “Don’t pull the knife out. Too close to the heart. Might have nicked something.”
Above him, Mitch heard the whomping noise of the helo again, felt the sound vibrating inside his chest where his heart had stopped beating.
“That’s Dupé.” Cooper came out of the bathroom with towels and tossed them to Nelson. “Wrap her up and get her on that helo. I’ll radio ahead to the hospital and have them on standby.”
The voices, the helicopter noise…all of it receded as Mitch stared down into Emma’s hazel eyes, fluttering to stay open. “Hang in there, doc,” he murmured as he tucked a towel around the knife wound. His movements were stiff. Once again, the threat of slipping back into the past and the horror of the day he’d lost Mac threatened to take him under.
“I…” she said, then licked her lips and grimaced as she reached for his hand. “Don’t leave me, okay?”
Leave her? He would never leave her.
But he wasn’t the one dying.
She was.
Her body trembled, probably from shock. “I’m cold.”
Mac had left him. Their father had left them. Their mother had left Mitch emotionally a long time ago, his brother’s death only making it more pronounced.
He yanked the blanket off the bed. “Help is on the way.”
“I did…what you said…” One side of her lips lifted in a tired smile. “I aimed for the eye.” And then her face sobered. “I didn’t want to kill him, Mitch. I didn’t…but…”
“You had to. I know.” He brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “You did the right thing, Doc. He wouldn’t have stopped until he killed you.”
Her eyes closed. Her chest heaved and blood ran from the corner of her mouth. “So tired.”
“Emma.” Mitch leaned over and gave her a gentle pat on the face. “Stay with me. Keep your eyes open.”
“Come on,” Nelson said, giving Mitch’s shoulder a squeeze. “Cooper went down to tell Dupé we need the helicopter. Let’s get the good doctor here to the hospital.”
Mitch hadn’t realized it but Nelson had stripped the bed sheets and laid them on the floor. Carefully, they worked together to wrap them around Emma.
They heard more heavy footsteps on the stairs and Cooper entered with Dupé and the helicopter pilot, who was carrying a stretcher.
“What the living hell?” Dupé said, taking in the scene, his face tight with anger.
Mitch and Nelson gently loaded Emma onto the stretcher. “She’s been knifed in the chest,” Mitch said, even though it seemed obvious from the hilt still sticking out from her upper body. “She needs immediate medical attention.”
The man’s dark eyes cut to his. “You were supposed to keep her safe.”
Bile rose in his throat. Anger, hot and potent. “I…failed.”
The director shifted aside and motioned at them impatiently. “Get her into my chopper.”
The veterinarian appeared in the doorway, her face blanching as she took in Emma’s condition. “Oh, dear God. Is she alive? What can I do?”
“If you know anything about knife wounds, you can ride with her in the helicopter to the hospital,” Mitch said as she moved aside and he and Nelson swung the stretcher into the hall. “Otherwise, stay here and help Will.”
It took careful finagling to get Emma down the stairs and outside. The vet ran alongside confessing to Mitch that she didn’t feel qualified to handle this type of emergency, but that she would do her best to stabilize Emma until they got to the hospital.
With the stretcher inside the tight quarters of the helicopter, there was only room for the doctor and Director Dupé. Having secured her in with the help of the pilot, Mitch was about to back out when Emma’s hand grabbed hold of his shirt.
He looked over and saw her lips moving, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying over the noise of the blades.
Leaning down, he gave her hand a squeeze. “You’re going to be okay,” he yelled over the noise.
She said something again and he put his ear close to hers. “What?”
“I love…you.”
His head snapped up and he met her eyes. Love, that one little word making his heart swell and recoil at the same time.
He opened his mouth to respond, saw her eyes go fuzzy and roll up into her head.
Shit. He had to let the chopper go. Get her to decent medical care.
Letting go of her hand, he hung his head for a brief moment. If she dies…
Mitch climbed out of the helicopter and faced Dupé who was about to climb in. He stuck his arm out, barring the director from his seat.
“I want to ride with her,” he yelled, ignoring a hollowness inside him
that made it hard to breathe.
Dupé’s brows crashed together as he bent over from the wash of the blades. Behind him, Cooper and the others watched somberly. The CSI techs were half-watching too, as they processed the van’s crime scene. Will, standing on the porch with the dogs looked on with a grim countenance.
“Please,” Mitch insisted. When was the last time he’d said that word to a superior? He didn’t even say it to his mother anymore. “Collins is still my responsibility, sir, and I don’t intend to let her die.”
Dupé brushed his jacket back, a muscle in his jaw jumping.
“We’re ready, Director,” the pilot called.
Mitch was sure Dupé was going to tell him to get out of the way, when instead, the director’s gaze flicked to his chest. “Are you wearing my shirt?” he yelled.
Mitch’s blood ran cold. “Your shirt?”
Dupé gave him a curt nod and waved him off. “Get in the chopper, son, and don’t make me regret this.”
He was wearing Victor Dupé’s shirt.
Victor Dupé, the man who had helped Emma through Christmas last year. Helped her grieve.
Mitch shut down the jealousy and transplanted the veterinarian, hustling her into the seat next to the pilot as he took up a position next to Emma.
The pilot handed both of them headsets.
“I can’t help her from here,” the doctor said as she spoke into the microphone.
Mitch clasped Emma’s hand between his own. “Tell me what to do. I’ll keep her alive.”
The vet gave him a pointed look, but she must have seen the determination and downright stubbornness on his face. She nodded, and as she began reeling off instructions, they lifted into the air.
Six hours later, Emma was still in surgery. The injury was serious; she’d lost a lot of blood before they’d gotten her to the ER. If it had happened a few hours earlier, when Dupé was nowhere near and the others hadn’t arrived, she would be dead.
That thought churned in Mitch’s head as he paced the halls, dead on his feet, but unable to sit still.
He’d sworn he’d never let anyone else die on his watch. He’d finally allowed himself love again and that incredible person had nearly lost her life because he hadn’t been paying attention.
