What I've Done (Morgan Dane #4)(11)

The robber spun away from Sharp and toward Ted, whose navy-blue uniform was just visible through the potato chip display. The revolver fired. Sharp pulled his trigger. Ted’s gun went off. Someone screamed. The robber’s legs folded. He slumped to the floor on his side. His fingers opened. Sharp shuffled forward, his gun still aimed at the robber’s center mass. He kicked the gun away, holstered his own weapon, then handcuffed the robber. Blood seeped onto the floor from multiple gunshots in his torso, arm, and shoulder. He and Ted must have both hit their target.

With the threat neutralized, Sharp stood, chest heaving. Ten feet away, Ted collapsed onto his ass. He threw a hand out to brace himself. Blood poured down his shoulder from a wound in the side of his neck.

No.

Horrified, Sharp rushed forward and caught his friend around the shoulders, easing him to the floor.

“Officer down!” Sharp shouted into his radio mic to call for backup and an ambulance. He pressed both hands to the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. Panic roiled in his belly as blood welled between his fingers.

“Here.” A woman handed a towel over Sharp’s shoulder.

He used it to staunch the flow of blood, but the puddle on the linoleum was spreading no matter what he did. It soaked through the knees of his uniform trousers. The bullet must have severed Ted’s carotid artery.

Red lights flashed outside the glass door as two more patrol cars turned into the parking lot.

Another patrol officer rushed in and sized up the situation. “Ambulance ETA is nine minutes.”

Grief and anguish welled into Sharp’s chest and throat. The pressure built until it felt as if it would crack him open. His vision blurred as a river of red continued to flow from Ted’s neck.

Ted needed help now. He wouldn’t make it another nine minutes. He might not make it ninety seconds.

There was nothing Sharp could do. Nothing. Helplessness flooded him.

Ted’s hand moved to touch Sharp’s wrist. His mouth moved, but no words came out, just a hiss of pink froth. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His lips moved. Sharp leaned close to hear the words over the gurgle of blood in Ted’s throat.

“Take care of Eliza and Haley,” Ted rasped.

Sharp wanted to protest, to tell his friend that he’d be caring for his own wife and baby. But that wasn’t what Ted needed. He wanted to know his family would be cared for.

They both knew Ted wasn’t going to make it. It just wasn’t possible. He might have a chance if there were an operating room and bags of blood right here, right now. But there weren’t.

So, instead of making empty promises, Sharp said the words that would ease his friend’s anxiety. “I will.”

Tears filled Ted’s eyes. His lips moved again. “Tell her I love her,” he mouthed.

Unable to speak, his throat clogged with shock and sorrow, Sharp nodded.

Ted’s grip on his wrist weakened and fell away. His breath rattled in his throat. Air bubbles welled in the blood coming from the bullet hole. His chest expanded in one more ragged, wet gasp, then settled, still and silent. His gaze left Sharp’s and stared blankly at the ceiling.

Footsteps sounded behind Sharp. Someone pulled him away. Medics rushed in. One compressed the wound. The other started CPR. But the silence in the small store told the truth.

Ted was gone. He hadn’t had a chance. The wound had been too grievous. The bullet had hit too many vital structures.

Hands gripped Sharp’s shoulders. “Are you hit?”

He shook his head, his gaze still on his friend.

Reality overwhelmed him. Ted was dead. His wife and baby were alone.

Who would tell Eliza?





Chapter Six

The ER was quiet when they arrived. Two hours later, Morgan was diagnosed with a mild concussion and released. Her head throbbed with its own pulse as she and Lance exited the building. He had pulled the Jeep up to the door. Holding an ice pack given to her in the ER, she climbed into the passenger seat, and he drove out of the parking lot.

Morgan rooted through her tote bag for the small bottle of pain relievers she’d purchased earlier. Her hands trembled hard enough to make the pills rattle inside the bottle.

Her own client had hit her.

Inside the courthouse in full view of the prosecutor, a half dozen deputies, and who knew how many surveillance cameras? She’d been threatened numerous times as a prosecutor but always by the opposing side. She hadn’t expected an attack from the very person she’d been trying to defend. Being a private defense attorney should be less dangerous than working for the DA’s office. As the mother of three children who had already lost one parent, Morgan had considered this aspect of her career change a benefit. Had she been wrong?

The event seemed surreal, except for the very real pain rocketing through her face and head. McFarland’s fist had connected with her temple, but she felt its impact in her jaw and the back of her skull. Even her teeth ached.

Lance reached behind her seat and produced a bottle of water. He set it in the console cupholder.

“Thank you.” She twisted the cap off the medicine bottle and tipped it into her hand. The pills spilled out over her lap.

“Damn.” She picked two tablets off the seat of the Jeep, put them in her mouth, and washed them down. Setting the water in the cupholder, she gathered up the spilled medication and returned it to the bottle.