The weapon is almost at my throat now. Another inch and it's game over. I can see the madness in Tommy's eyes, the knowledge that he's about to cross a line there's no coming back from.
That's when the shot rings out.
The sound is deafening in the enclosed space, echoing off the concrete walls like thunder. Tommy's eyes go wide with shock, and the pressure on the wooden spear disappears as his hands go slack.
He looks down at the spreading red stain on his shirt, then back up at me with confusion written all over his face.
"I..." he starts to say, but blood bubbles up from his lips instead of words.
He topples sideways, the improvised weapon clattering away across the concrete. I roll away from him, gasping for breath, my hand going to my throat to make sure it's still intact.
Ransom is already moving, holstering his weapon as he comes around to check on Tommy. The man's still breathing, but it's shallow and wet. We both know he's not walking away from this.
"Had to do it," Ransom says, his voice tight. "He was gonna kill you."
I nod, pushing myself into a sitting position. "Clean shoot. Self-defense."
"Defense of another," he corrects. "Better story for the paperwork."
We both know why he took the shot instead of letting me handle it. If Devil killed Tommy, it would raise questions. Questions about why a biker had access to the kind of training that would let him take down a man like Tommy in hand-to-hand combat. Questions that could blow my cover and end the investigation we've been working for years.
But if Officer Ransom Thompson, on-duty and responding to a domestic disturbance call, shot a man who was about to commit murder, well, that's just another day at work.
Tommy makes a wet, choking sound, and we both look down at him. His eyes are starting to glaze over, but they're still focused enough to look at us with something that might be understanding.
"Cops," he whispers, blood frothing at the corners of his mouth. "Fucking... cops."
Then his eyes go empty, and the only sound is our breathing echoing in the warehouse.
Ransom is already pulling out his phone. "I need to call Chief Harrison. Get this scene locked down before anyone else shows up."
I nod, but I'm already thinking about other things. More important things. "Dani. Where did Storm take her?"
"Hospital, most likely. She was pretty banged up when he got to her."
My heart clenches. I knew she was hurt, but hearing it confirmed makes it real in a way that has me struggling to breathe again.
"Go," Ransom says, reading my face. "I'll handle this mess. Far as anyone knows, I was following up on a tip about drug activity and walked into Tommy trying to kill an unidentified civilian. You were never here. Ain't like Saint's Outlaws are going to talk and neither will The Rebels."
I'm already moving toward the exit, but I pause long enough to look back at him. "I owe you."
"No, you don't. This is what co-workers do."
It still catches me off guard when he says co-workers. Sometimes I get so deep into the undercover part of this job, it surprises me I'm a cop.
"Still," I say. "I won't forget this."
He waves me off, already dialing Chief Harrison's number. I can hear him starting to talk as I push through the warehouse doors into the blinding sunlight of the parking lot.
My bike is where I left it, and I fire it up with hands that are shaking more than I'd like to admit. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and everything hurts. My arm, my ribs, my jaw, hell, even my knuckles are screaming at me.
But none of that matters. Not compared to getting to Dani.
The ride to Laurel Springs Medical feels like it takes forever, even though I'm pushing the speed limit and then some. Every red light is an eternity. Every slow-moving car is a personal insult. All I can think about is her face, her smile, the way she looked at me this morning when I kissed her goodbye.
I screech into the hospital parking lot and abandon my bike in the first spot I can find. The emergency room is chaos, as always, but I push through the crowd of waiting patients and concerned families to get to the admissions desk.
"I'm looking for my wife," I tell the receptionist, probably too loud and definitely too intense. "Dani Mitchell. She would have come in within the last few hours."
