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Then his wounded leg failed again.

Wade saw it. Used it.

Declan went backward into the dresser.

The back of his head struck the edge with a sound that made my stomach turn. He dropped.

“Declan!” He didn’t move.

My radio cracked beside me.

“Chief.”

No answer.

For the first time, Wade stood clear. I had the shot. My gun came level. Wade looked at me.

And snapped his fingers.

Snap.

Static tore through my head.

My arm stopped. Not lowered. Stopped.

The gun was pointed at him.

I could see the sights. I knew what came next.

My finger would not move. My hand did not feel attached to me.

The terror didn’t freeze with the rest of me. It ran wild inside a body that would not obey.

I was trapped behind my own eyes, watching him come closer.

Wade took one step.

Raw terror shook me. I tried to move. Nothing.

Another.

My vision flickered. Dirt. Dark.

His face. My room.

Declan bleeding on the floor.

“No.” I heard myself say it.

Wade moved faster. His hand struck my wrist.

The gun flew away, hit the wall and disappeared behind my desk.

I went for it.

He caught me.

His forearm cinched high across my ribs, crushing my back against his chest. His hand hooked over my opposite shoulder, fingers spread beneath my collarbone, his thumb resting in the hollow at the base of my throat. The other hand held the gun tight against my side, his knuckles pressed into my waist and the muzzle digging beneath my lowest rib.