This was a no-win.
Finally, the crowd thinned and she spotted Mr. Brown on the sidelines. Approaching him in the darkened corner didn’t feel right. And when the hell had she started going so much on “feelings”?
Since Jose.
She looked closer. Brown’s spiked ginger-colored hair shone… along with the glint of his gun.
Gun?
Why the hell did he have his weapon drawn? She palmed her 9 mm. Damn, damn, damn, a shoot-out here would be a very bad thing. And maybe his intent was benign. Even so, she couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
She brought her sleeve up to her mouth and spoke into the mic. “Carson here, east side of park. Mr. Brown, why do you have your weapon drawn? Over.”
Mr. Smith hissed over the headset. “Draw down. Now. That’s an order.”
Brown pivoted, fast and sharp on his heels, facing her for an instant. His eyes blared the worst message of all. Desperation.
As if in slow motion, she saw his gun arm swing back toward the stage. Toward the vice president’s wife.
“No!” she shouted, whipping her 9 mm from under the folds of her wrap.
Sprinting, she wished like hell she had Jose’s speed. Her heart leaped in her throat. Her ears roared so loudly she couldn’t have heard a gunshot or screams. She caught a flash of red out of the corner of her eyes. Blood? No. Jose’s hat as he vaulted onto the stage to protect his charge. She ran faster, closing the gap. And thank God the few people in her way dropped to the ground, giving her a clear shot at Agent Brown.
A man she’d worked with for the past six months.
She squeezed off two shots without hesitation, catching him in the shoulder. Ten feet away, Brown spun around from the impact. His fist still gripped his gun.
Pain exploded in her leg. In her head. She stumbled forward toward her target.
Then she smelled it. Blood. Her own. Dripping in her eyes and down the sides of her nose. She fell to her knees and shot Brown again, blasting away his kneecap. Howling, he fell to his side. His gun skittered away. And finally, she let herself sag the rest of the way to the ground.
As she lay on her side, she looked into the eyes of a man she’d trusted with her life and asked, “How could you?”
Sweat rolled down his face, his mouth twisted in agony. “Wouldn’t you do anything to protect your family?”
Her family? Images of her brothers, her father, her mother all scrolled through her mind in the fast-track life review. But then the reel slowed and focused on one face, one man.
Jose. Her family. And she’d foolishly pushed him away. Love and loss seeped through her as tangibly as her life’s blood leaving her body.
Chapter 16
Jose was in hell.
Draped over the vice president’s wife, he needed to be with Stella. Each gunshot echoing in his ears ripped a roar of denial from him. He’d done his job, protected the vice president’s wife, but at such a high cost. Stella had been shot. She’d defied the odds to stop an all-out massacre, and he doubted he could have done anything more.
The fact that they’d both been doing their jobs was piss poor comfort. His heart hammered in his ears. Where the hell were his objective instincts from years of training?
A hand clamped him on the shoulder. He jerked, looking to find Bubbles crouched beside him. “I’ve got things here. The Saint too. Go treat Stella. Go.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. Jose launched off the stage into the mayhem below. Jose pushed past a couple shoving back against him, desperate to get away. His eyes stayed locked on Stella, the world around him a peripheral blur.
Security had their hands full restoring order. Fang loped up alongside him, medical rucksack in hand that carried enough supplies to treat up to three patients. How f**king ironic that Stella and Brown would be sharing lifesaving gear. Fang kept pace as they dodged musicians huddled by a bandstand. There was no discussing who would treat Brown and who would take Stella.
She was his, damn it.
Fang could care for the traitorous bastard.
A trio knelt around Stella, and he could only see her feet and a trailing edge of the kanga he’d given her. If she was dead… Even thinking it threatened to knock the ground out from under him. He could rub that sobriety coin all damn day and nothing, nothing would get him through if he lost the most important person in his life.