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“No,” I cried as the man’s arm raised, aimed, at me.
Just as Michael took a step to the right, not realizing he was standing right in front of me. Right in the path of the bullet.
Instinct had me dropping down to a squat.
Just as the popping sound of the silenced gun broke out. As the bullet flew. As it struck the senator.
The gunman let out a string of Russian as he moved inward, trying to get a clear path to me.
Feeling like a monster for leaving Michael alone, shot with a bullet meant for me, I rushed into the bathroom, slamming, and locking the door, then scurrying to hide behind the sink cabinet, praying that if he shot through the door, there was enough between us to slow down the bullet, to make it less deadly if it did lodge in me.
Bile rose up my throat, knowing Michael was out there, shot, alone, likely terrified. But there was no way I could go out there when my own body was vibrating in fear, my heartbeat punching against my ribcage, a cold sweat trickling down my back.
There was a thunk, closer than felt comfortable. And before I could remind myself to stay hidden where I was relatively safe, I peeked out from behind the sink cabinet and saw a hole in the wall across from it.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
I had to do something.
I had to call for help.
With shaky hands, I drew out my phone, closing the recording app, and hitting 911.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“There’s been a shooting,” I whispered, rattling off the address.
“Did you say there was a shooting? Was anyone shot?”
“My boss. Senator Westmoore was shot.”
“Senator Westmoore?” she asked, voice tight.
“Yes.”
“Is he breathing?” she asked. “Where was he shot?”
“I don’t know. I’m hiding in the bathroom,” I said as another bullet whizzed into the room, making my shoulders draw up near my ears, my whole body tensing. “I think he was shot in the chest.”
“Help is on—“
There was a yell and a loud slam outside the door, making me gasp.
“Ma’am? Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, pulling the phone from my ear to hear better.
“Grab the gun!” Niel, one of the staffers yelled as there was another loud slam and a groan.
Were they… fighting the guy off?
“Get his legs,” Niel yelled, sounding breathless, like he was struggling to hold onto the guy.
I couldn’t just sit in here, cowering, while the other staffers put their life on the line against an attacker who was here for me.
“I think the staffers are holding onto the shooter,” I whispered into the phone before ending the call, tucking the phone back into my pocket as I inched toward the door, ignoring the way my belly was wobbling as I reached for the door handle.
As soon as I opened the door, there was a loud slam, and I saw Niel landing on top of the shooter on my desk as another male staffer rushed forward to grab the man’s legs.
