Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Officer down!” Aisha croaks out from somewhere nearby. “Thurman, where the fuck are you?”
I race past the psycho whose bullet-riddled body lies sprawled out in the grass and take cover behind a motorcycle.
“I’m here, Patel, where are you?”
Swiping my hair out of my eyes so I can see better, I survey the property, looking for threats and my partner. I don’t see the shooter anywhere. Maybe Aisha got him.
A familiar, pained moan carries over to me. She’s close and clearly injured. Fuck. There’s a small garden wall separating the biker property from their neighbors. It’s made of cinderblocks, which would be a great place to take cover.
Please, God, let her be there and alive.
Sirens wail in the distance and it’s a sweet, beautiful sound. If I can just get the two of us to safety until backup arrives, we’ll take down these assholes.
“I’m coming,” I mutter, knowing Aisha can’t hear me but needing to coax myself into running the distance from my hiding spot to the garden wall.
With a deep breath, I ignore the throbbing pain on my face and in my skull from Bozo’s punch and take off toward the waist-high wall. I’m nearly there when I hear the shooter again.
Bang!
Fire explodes in my back and I stumble, landing face first in the grass. The pain radiating through me is overwhelming. It’d be easy to curl into a ball and pray for it all to go away.
That would mean sure death.
I can’t die when I’ve finally found happiness in life.
Pushing through, I crawl the rest of the way with what little strength I have left. When I launch myself to the other side of the wall, I’m met with a gun to my face.
Here’s where I die.
“Thurman,” Aisha hisses. “I nearly shot your eye out!”
Groaning, I fall to the ground beside her. “You’re injured. We have to get the hell out of here.”
Aisha twists around and fires her weapon a couple of times over the wall before dropping back down beside me. “Easier said than done.” She groans in pain again. “Fuck. Is that my blood or your blood? Oh shit. You’re bleeding a lot, Thurman. Fuck! Sloane, fuck!”
Her voice grows smaller and smaller and smaller.
All the light vanishes in a blink.
Dempsey
“Dempsey! Open up!”
I walk out of the laundry room and make my way to the front door, where my sister keeps pounding. Should have known I couldn’t ignore my family forever, especially not her.
“What?” I grumble as I open the door. “It’s called space. Give it to me.” Her tearstained face has me tensing up and panic slamming into me. “What’s wrong? Gemma, are you okay? Mom? Dad?”
She swipes at her tears, throwing herself at me for a hug. “You haven’t heard? It’s been all over the news. I tried calling you like a million times.”
Gripping her shoulders, I pull her back so I can look at her. “Heard what? You’re fucking scaring me right now.”
A sob escapes her. “T-Two officers were involved in a shootout.”
My blood turns to ice in my veins.
“Two female officers, Dempsey. Have you heard from Sloane? I have this sick feeling it was her.”
There aren’t a lot of female officers in the Park Mountain PD. Sloane told me they’re the only two women who go on patrol. The rest are men.
It’s her.
It’s fucking her.
“No,” I hiss, panic clawing at my throat and making it hard for me to breathe. “This can’t be fucking happening.” I know it’s a fruitless effort, but I race to my phone to call Sloane. No answer. “No!”
“What do we do?” Gemma asks, bottom lip trembling.
“Hospital,” I grunt. “Let’s go.”
I snag the keys from her and bolt out the front door with my sister on my heels. We break every speed limit and traffic law on the way there. I park our massive boat in a fire lane, not bothering to take the keys out of the ignition. Since Gemma isn’t right behind me anymore, I imagine she’s dealing with the car for me.
“Two officers,” I bark out to the receptionist. “Where were they taken?”
“Sir,” the woman with a name tag that reads “Candace” says, “slow down. Who is it you’re looking for?”
“Sloane Thurman. I need to know if this officer was brought in.”
The woman’s features scrunch. “I, uh, let me see.”
She taps away on the computer and then gives me a grim look.
“What?” I demand.
“Perhaps you should have a seat in the waiting room.”
“What? No. I want to know where Sloane is!”
She leans forward and whispers, “I can confirm she was brought in and is being prepped for surgery. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can offer right now.”
I stumble back, the breath leaving my lungs. Prepping for surgery. She was shot. My fucking girlfriend was shot. I tug at my hair, attempting to keep the terror from consuming me. Gemma arrives, eyes darting back and forth in question.