Page 65 of Undercover Hearts
The realization triggered something primal, something beyond tactical training or professional judgment. Michelle lunged forward, her body moving on instinct rather than conscious decision.
"Jenna, down!" she shouted, her voice carrying through the chaos.
As tactical teams breached the perimeter at the far end of the path, as Jenna began to drop into defensive position, as Kendall's weapon discharged with a sharp crack that echoed across the cliffside, Michelle completed her motion—the simplest and most complicated decision of her career.
Her body intercepted the space between Kendall's weapon and Jenna's position.
Time contracted to a series of disconnected sensations.
The weapon's discharge: a sharp crack splitting the night.
The impact: a white-hot punch just below Michelle's left collarbone, the force spinning her body halfway around.
The ground: unyielding stone rushing up to meet her as equilibrium failed.
Michelle registered these moments with clinical detachment, her professional training cataloging each sensation even as her body absorbed the damage. She heard shouting—tactical teams converging, someone commanding Kendall to drop her weapon, Jenna's voice rising above the chaos.
She tried to push herself upright, but her left arm wouldn't cooperate. A strange warmth spread across her chest, oddly disconnected from the burning at the bullet's entry point. Her brain calmly identified the physiological responses: shock setting in, blood pressure dropping, pain receptors temporarily overloaded.
"Michelle!" Jenna's voice cut through the fog descending around her consciousness. "Officer down! Medical, now!"
Strong hands rolled her carefully onto her back. Michelle blinked against the flashlights cutting through the darkness, their beams creating dancing halos in her increasingly blurred vision. Jenna's face appeared above her, features tight with controlled panic.
"Stay with me," Jenna commanded, applying pressure to the wound. "Medic incoming. Just stay with me."
Michelle wanted to respond, to assure Jenna that the situation was under control, but her voice refused to cooperate. The disconnect between intention and ability registered as a warning sign her professional training immediately recognized: significant blood loss affecting cognitive function.
Around them, the operation continued its choreographed conclusion. Tactical teams secured the property perimeter. Officers led handcuffed PWC members toward transport vehicles. Lieutenant Hodges' voice carried directions for evidence preservation.
"Sienna and Isabella are in custody," someone reported nearby. "Warehouse secured. Evidence intact."
The details filtered through Michelle's fading awareness.
But those thoughts seemed increasingly distant compared to the immediate reality of Jenna's hands pressing against her chest, stemming the flow of blood with fierce determination.
"Where's the damn medic?" Jenna demanded, her composed undercover persona completely dissolved, replaced by raw urgency.
"Two minutes out," came the response from somewhere beyond Michelle's narrowing field of vision.
"She doesn't have two minutes," Jenna snapped. "She's losing too much blood."
Michelle felt a strange detachment setting in, her body growing impossibly heavy while her thoughts became oddly light. She recognized the physiological progression with professional clarity: hypovolemic shock advancing as blood loss continued.
"Michelle." Jenna's face moved closer, her voice dropping to an intimate register that cut through the surrounding chaos. "Stay focused on me. Right here."
Michelle found herself fixating on unexpected details: the precise green of Jenna's eyes in the harsh tactical lighting, the small scar above her right eyebrow that Michelle had memorized during their time together, the slight tremor in Jenna's hands.
She tried again to speak, managing only a wet cough that tasted of copper.
"Don't try to talk," Jenna instructed, applying more pressure to the wound. "Helicopter landing in three minutes."
The information registered professionally: emergency extraction, critical injury protocol. Personally, Michelle was more concerned with the tear tracking down Jenna's cheek, cutting through the dust from the operation to leave a clean line across her skin.
Michelle managed to lift her right hand, fingers brushing weakly against Jenna's arm.
"You got them," she whispered, the words requiring monumental effort.
"We got them," Jenna confirmed, her voice catching. "Evidence is secured. Financial records, distribution networks, everything. They're done."
