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My ears ring from the percussive blast, but I don’t care. Neither does Chelsea. She sits up, and her hands go straight to my face. “Jackson, are you okay?”
I let my head fall back, and my eyes close. Chelsea was shot, and she’s asking if I’m ok. “I love you, Chelsea.”
“Jackson! I asked if you were alright.”
Eyes still closed, I say, “I can’t wait for my son to meet you.”
“Shit! Caleb!”
At her yell, my eyes fly open. Caleb? My son’s here? Chelsea jumps up and runs from the kitchen. Fear like I’ve never known obliterates rational thought. My son! I can’t get up to follow Chelsea, so I work to roll over, determined to crawl. That’s when I notice black fur, unmoving. “Captain!”
What the hell are they doing here?! I pull my body forward a few inches and give out. Her back legs are within reach, so I grab a paw and pull her toward me, gently laying my head on her chest. A faint beat resonates in my ear. She’s alive but unresponsive.
I try again to crawl from the kitchen and hear the faint wail of approaching sirens. “Caleb! Chelsea!”
A shout from the front door shuts me up. “VBPD! Nobody move!”
“The shooter is down. Outside. Northwest corner,” I yell back.
“Identify yourself!”
“Lieutenant Jackson Bennett. I’m down. In the kitchen. My girlfriend went to check on my son. I don’t know where.”
“Back here,” Chelsea yells. “Caleb’s alive but unconscious.”
An army of stomping boots spread out, with three S.W.A.T guys rushing into the kitchen.
“The shooter is down there,” I announce, gesturing through the window.
“Where are you hit?” one asks, pointing to the blood on the floor and my chest.
“Not mine. Chelsea was shot. I was drugged. I don’t know what’s wrong with my dog.”
One of the team steps out to call for paramedics. The other stands guard over the pistol. The lead guy gestures toward the weapon. “Whose gun is this?”
I point toward the corpse outside. “His. I relieved him of it when he stuck it through the window.”
“Ballsy,” the cop responds.
No. “Desperate.”
Another guy escorts Chelsea back to the kitchen. She sobs when she notices Captain on the floor and drops to her knees beside me. “How is he? How’s my son?”
Chelsea’s hands are shaking. “I think he was drugged. He’s like you were.”
“What about you? You were hit.”
“Just a graze,” she answers, slightly less rattled.
Chelsea turns her head to peer out the window. “Is he dead?”
“He’s dead,” someone outside answers.
More sirens approach, these sounding like they’re driving into the house. Another swarm of first responders flood the house, one pulling Chelsea away to treat her.
At seeing the last two faces that walk through the kitchen opening, I finally relax, knowing this shit show is over. Knot and O’Reilly.
Jackson
