Shattered Lies (Web of Lies #3)(6)
“He’s unconscious.” Tate shook Birch and got a groan out of him. “Birch, you have to wake up. Birch!”
Sirens sounded in the distance. Tate looked up at Brock, his face set in stone as he aimed at the first wave of men and fired. Tate looked to the back door. Could she drag Birch outside? Tate screamed as a man kicked in the back door, answering her question for her.
Brock turned to look and fired, missing the man, before the four men at the front sprayed them with gunfire. Brock ducked and Tate covered Birch with her body as she picked up Abrams’s gun and fired. It hit his chest, but he didn’t stop. She fired again, this time at his head and the man at the back door fell down, dead.
She began to turn in order to tell Brock to aim for the head when she felt her face splashed with something warm. She wiped it from her eyes, and when she looked at her hands they were red. “Brock?”
Tate didn’t have to look up to find him. Brock’s body lay a foot from her knees and part of his head was missing. Tate choked back a helpless cry and with resolve reached for the gun in his hand.
The only chance they stood to survive was her own will to live and two guns. Tate pulled the table closer to cover herself and Birch before lying flat on the ground and crawling to the edge of the table. She took a deep breath like she did during target competition and cleared her mind. She ignored the sounds of sirens. She couldn’t count on them. She ignored Brock’s body and the blood pooling around his head inches from her. She ignored the warmth and stickiness of that blood on her bare arm as she laid herself into firing position.
Tate saw the targets, and she fired. Four rapid shots as if she were in competition. Two hit dead center as they fell dead, their heads blasted apart. The other two dove for cover as Tate slid back behind the table and military-crawled to the other side.
“Behind you,” Birch gasped, his breathing unsteady.
In surprise, Tate spun around only to feel a bullet rip through her shoulder. She screamed, the gun in her right hand falling to the ground. The man lowered his gun at Birch, and Tate raised her left hand. She fired Brock’s gun over and over. The man staggered back as she hit him in the vest, readjusted her aim and shot him in the eye. His body slammed against the back wall leaving a red mark on the wall as he slid down.
She rummaged through Brock’s pockets until she found another clip. She slid it into the gun and held it awkwardly with her left hand. “Birch, hang in there, please. Help is coming.”
“I love you,” Birch gasped between heavy breaths. He fought to breathe as Tate leaned down and placed trembling lips to his.
“I love you too.”
Then Tate did the hardest thing she’d ever done. She turned her back on Birch as his eyes slid closed. Sounds of sirens, helicopters, and men yelling surrounded her, but there were still two men inside the restaurant as federal agents and police began to surround the building. Tate knew without a doubt the two remaining men wouldn’t give up without a fight.
She sat up on her knees, the pain from her broken lower leg sending a wave of dizziness through her, and scanned the area through the sight of her gun. There, at the corner of the bar the muzzle of a gun stuck out. Tate pushed everything aside as she focused on that gun. It moved slowly as the man decided to lean out. With her arms propped on the edge of the table, her knees shaking from pain and her left hand holding her injured arm steady, she pulled the trigger. She didn’t wait for the best shot. She just took the shot. The shot she knew would kill him if it hit, and she knew it would. She saw the gun drop to the ground and knew she’d hit her target.
“Police! Drop your weapon!” came the command from behind her. But Tate just shook her head. There was still one more person left unaccounted for.
Tate felt them surrounding her from behind. She saw the officers and agents storm the front. “Watch out!” she screamed, but it was too late. The last gunman opened fire. An agent fell as a hailstorm of gunfire aimed at a person she couldn’t see erupted. Then all was quiet.
“It’s the president!” Tate heard someone gasp behind her. “We need an ambulance ASAP!”
Tate finally dropped the gun. Her body collapsed. Her legs gave out as she fell to Birch’s side.
“Are you Tate Carlisle?” an officer asked. He seemed fuzzy as the world tilted. She blinked back the shadows as she fumbled to find Birch’s hand. When she clasped his hand, she looked back up. “Yes, but you need to get Birch to a hospital now.”
“I believe we need to get you there too. That was a hell of a shot, Miss Carlisle.”
She didn’t care. She looked down at Birch as EMTs rushed inside. Tate was pulled away, and she screamed in pain. She didn’t hear the officer apologize. She only watched in absolute horror as the EMTs began CPR on Birch’s lifeless body.
In minutes, they had him strapped to a spinal board as six men carried him quickly from the restaurant. “I have to go with him,” she yelled as other EMTs now flooded in to help the injured.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that. You need to come with us.” Tate looked up at the unidentified agent. He didn’t offer an explanation and the officer was happy to hand her off.
“No,” she said with as much power as she could. “I’m Tate Carlisle, the press secretary for the president, and I will not go with anyone I don’t know. Please call Humphrey Orville, the chief of staff, for me.”