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The drive took me three minutes max.
When I got there, I saw a bunch of neon green and blue on one curb, and black and yellow on the other.
All of them were on their bellies with their faces on the asphalt, looking pissed as hell.
Half of them looked like they were kids.
Goddammit.
My brain, however, didn’t focus on my job.
No, it wanted one thing, and one thing only.
Shayne.
I looked around for the incident commander, finding him talking to Boseman.
“Shayne Rodriguez,” I blurted out. “Where is she?”
Boseman and the incident commander pointed, and I was sprinting toward the ambulance where the shock of black hair was hanging out of the back of it, hanging stick straight, right off the end of a bench.
My heart rate soared as I watched her turn toward me and stare.
Alive.
She was alive.
“Shayne,” I breathed when I got to her.
She was hanging off one of the benches in the ambulance while another man took up the middle on the gurney.
A paramedic was bandaging up Shayne’s wound.
“You’ll need to go get this checked out,” the paramedic was saying to her. “You don’t need stitches. You’ll need antibiotics, though. You’re filthy. Who the fuck knows what you were crawling around in.”
My stomach pitched again.
Crawling.
God, she must’ve been so scared.
I reached for her hair, unable to stop myself, but she jerked herself away.
“Don’t touch me,” she ordered.
I froze, hand mid-air, and stared.
She sat up, pulled her leggings up high over the wound, then reached for something on the ground.
She caught up the material of what looked like a sweatshirt, then tossed it to me.
“Here,” she snapped. “I’m not going to need this anymore.”
Then she stood up, obviously unfazed from having just been fucking shot, and hopped down onto the ground beside me.
I reached for her again, but she yanked her arm away before I could touch her.
“I called you,” she whispered, sounding hurt that I hadn’t answered. “I called you, and called you, and called you.”
