Page 70 of Falcon’s Forever

Emily looks frightened. I go to the stretcher. "Knox stays with you. I'll be right behind."

"You promise?" Her eyes find mine.

I hesitate, because promises are the thing that got me here in the first place. Then I nod. "Yes. I can promise that." Because this one's mine to keep.

They take her outside. The women crowd the doorway but don't leave the house, that’s another rule followed. I grab my coat.

Frankie catches my hand. "Your hands."

I look down. They are covered in blood, so much blood. "I need to wash."

"You need to breathe first," Frankie says as she squeezes.

"I'm fine,” I answer too quickly.

She gives me a look that says she's not buying it, and she's right not to. "I'm not fine."

"That's better," she says, and walks me to the sink.

The kitchen's a mess, there’s broken glass everywhere, a bullet hole above the counter, and the sight of it makes my stomach turn again, someone came this close. The back door opens and I spin around, and Ice Pick steps in.

"Me," he says immediately, identification before anything else, and I breathe again.

He looks at my hands. "Emily?"

"Knox thinks she'll make it." I can’t think of anything else to say.

"Good." His eyes move around the wrecked kitchen and back to me. "We're going to need everyone to stay here until we clear the full property."

"I need to go to the hospital. I promised Emily.” I panic.

"You will. An escort will take you as soon as Vulture clears movement." He’s only following the rules.

I want to argue, it’s an old instinct where nobody tells me where I can go. Then I remember there's an active threat and this isn't the same fight.

"Okay," I agree.

He looks mildly surprised. "Okay?"

"Don't make me regret agreeing."

"Wasn't going to." He absolutely was.

Frankie hands me a towel and I dry my hands, though I can still feel the blood on them somehow. A radio crackles outside, there are voices everywhere, and a different energy than before. I know before anyone tells me that Falcon's here.

He steps into the living room, and I see him through the kitchen doorway, there’s blood on his shirt, glass cuts along his face, and relief hits so hard and so fast it nearly takes my legs out from under me. He's alive.

For one heartbeat I want to run to him. Then I understand he came through the front door, from outside, and my relief changes shape into something colder. He wasn't here. Falcon sees me and stops.

He doesn’t rush forward, grab me, or demand answers. His gaze moves over me instead, checking for injuries.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

“No,” I answer.

His shoulders drop. That small sign of relief sends something hot and complicated through my chest.

“Emily was shot,” I tell him.