Buried (Bone Secrets, #3)(94)

He was on the floor, crawling toward her. He had the gun in his left hand, slamming it against the floor as he moved. Michael’s right arm collapsed twice under his weight, his mouth bleeding.

Had he been shot in the mouth?

He grabbed her hand with his right and pulled, but the two fighting older men pinned her. She kicked harder, not caring who she hit. Dimly, she noticed the second man was Michael’s father, the senator. Grunting, the two brothers wrestled, the knife flashing between them. Warm, wet blood coated her legs and slicked the floor.

Was she cut? Had she not felt it?

Glancing at Michael, she saw his mouth was open, shock in his eyes. But he wasn’t looking at her. She followed his gaze and saw the blood spurting out of his father’s leg. She froze.

Tourniquet. Now.

“Shoot him!” she screamed at Michael. “Shoot him, now!”

He shook his head; it was too dangerous. She yanked her hand out of his, and alarm flashed across his face. With both hands, she shoved at the closest male body and the men rolled off her, thrashing and stabbing. She kicked at the governor, and he slashed at her legs. Michael’s father panted hard, his face crimson, and she saw an awareness of his injury in his eyes as he wrestled with his brother. The senator’s movements slowed, and Phillip gave a wallop to his chest that sent him flying onto his back. The senator lay still, gasping for breath as he stared at the ceiling.

He’s lost too much blood.

The governor froze, staring at his brother’s leg. He dropped the knife and reached for his belt buckle. Michael shot up from the floor and took his uncle down, slamming his head into the floor.

“Bind his leg,” Phillip yelled from beneath Michael. “He’s bleeding out.”

Michael scrambled off his uncle, who yanked his belt out of his loops. Phillip thrust the leather into Michael’s hands, who tore at his father’s pants, trying to see the wound. Blood spurted in arcs. Michael whipped the belt around his father’s leg at the groin and wrenched it tight, the blood slowing. Phillip moved to his knees, his gaze locked on his brother. The governor’s shoulders sagged, and he buried his face in his hands.

Jamie grabbed Michael’s gun.



Blood pounding in his ears, Chris swallowed hard, pressed into the Ghostman, and rested his finger on the gun’s trigger, grinding the weapon into the man’s jaw. The noise in the room faded away. Just Chris and his personal devil existed. The Ghostman stopped fighting and held perfectly still, trapped by Chris’s body against the wall. No safety on the Glock. Chris simply had to pull firmly. Once.

Nightmare over.

“Chris. Don’t do it.” Jamie’s voice came from behind him.

Chris’s finger twitched

“You’re better than this. Don’t start new nightmares.”

Chris stared into the eyes of his personal hell-creator. He could see the edge of the man’s contacts. He could see where he needed to touch up the hair dye. He could see the man’s fear. He could smell the Ghost, menthol and dusty, his scent eerily familiar and revolting.

“I’ve got him covered,” Jamie said. “You can back away.”

“Brian?” Chris croaked.

“Safe. I saw him run out of the room.”

“Michael?”

“He’s taking care of his father.” Jamie paused. “He and the governor are trying to stop the senator’s bleeding.”

Chris continued to lock stares with the Ghost, adrenaline pumping into his stomach, making him nauseous. He swallowed hard, fighting back visions of this man touching him as a child. He could feel the man’s heartbeat against his own. “Drop your gun.”

The Ghostman’s gun arm was still above his head, held motionless by Chris’s strength. Strength that he felt waning.

“Let go,” the Ghost sneered back, his lips exposing yellowed teeth.

“Gun first.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’ve got two guns pointed at your head. Drop yours.” Jamie sounded like she was disciplining one of her students. Her voice had moved closer. The sound of Michael talking frantically to his father entered Chris’s awareness.

The Ghost broke eye contact and looked over Chris’s shoulder. Presumably at Jamie. Resignation crossed his features. The Ghost’s arm muscles moved under Chris’s hand, and the Ghost’s gun fell to the ground.

Chris released his arm, took a half step back, and struck the Ghost across the face with his gun. His nose exploded in a shower of blood, and the Ghost dropped to his knees with a wail, his hands on his face.

“Chris!” Jamie cried.

Chris stood with his feet planted apart, his gun at his side, staring at the destroyer of his life, gasping deeply. He’d never seen the man grovel at his feet before.

Shoot him.

Do it.

He shook his head.

You have cause. Protect your son.

The Ghost cowered on his knees, blood seeping through his fingers, his shoulders shaking.

Chris swallowed hard and turned away. Jamie stood behind him, her gun still trained on the wretch of a human being. Her hair was tangled and smears of blood covered her body, but she stood strong. She met his gaze, and tears shone at the corners of her eyes.

“You did the right thing.”

Chris wondered.

She started to smile, but her gaze bolted behind him. Her mouth opened.