Page 90 of Stone
“That’s Ethan Warwick,” he said, nodding to the one who’d spoken. “One of Charley’s brothers. The other two are Tucker and Teague.”
“Brothers?” she asked. The two men shared the same build—which Juliana would classify as ginormous—and general facial features. Enough to look related, but not be mistaken for twins.
He nodded.
“Not without risking the others,” Parks replied to Ethan’s comment, her eyes sweeping over the scene. “Sure, you could have winged the three before they fired,” she continued, walking over to Gregor and inspecting the man. Juliana kept her gaze on Ethan. “But if you had, who knows where their shots would have gone? Also, this way, you don’t have as much paperwork.”
Juliana wasn’t entirely sure if the comment was gallows humor or a statement of fact.
“But there were four shots,” Juliana said. The distinct sound of four rounds going off was something she’d remember for longer than she wished.
“Polinsky’s shot went wide,” one of the brothers said. Ten sets of eyes looked to the wall behind Lowery’s body. Sure enough, Juliana spotted the bullet hole.
“Anyone else think it ironic that the only bad shot in the room was the cop?” Juliana muttered. Ethan chuckled, and the brothers grinned. The FBI agents were too busy to respond. Two were studying the scene, one was tending to a scowling Polinsky, and the fourth was on the phone. Parks stood watch over her team.
“I winged him after he fired,” Ethan said. “I didn’t want to give him a chance to realize he missed, then turn his weapon on you two.”
“Cheers for that,” Simon said before pulling her into his arms. “The FBI has the feed from these devices,” he said, letting go of her long enough to unhook the necklace HICC hadgiven her—the one with the tiny camera and microphone. After handing it to Ethan, he stripped off his T-shirt and passed that over, too, leaving him in a thin, body-hugging undershirt.
“Thanks for letting us test that,” Ethan said, taking the shirt and handing it to one of the brothers. It contained new technology that HICC asked him to trial—a tiny camera stitched into the logo of a popular brand.
“Can we go now?” Simon asked Agent Parks.
A shout, then scuffle, sounded before she could answer. Everyone turned toward it as Simon once again shoved her behind him.
Then everything seemed to slow down. To her left, the agent who had been tending to Polinsky stumbled back, landing on his ass a few feet from the lieutenant. Polinsky raised a gun that she didn’t have the time to wonder where it came from. Weapons were being pulled all around her. And Griswold was lunging toward the injured, but very much alive, man.
A single shot rang out as Griswold lifted his foot to kick the weapon from Polinsky’s bloody hand. Simon spun, once again covering her body with his, forcing her into a crouch. A heartbeat later, Griswold let out a roar as the sound of metal clattering across the floor echoed around them.
“What the ever-loving hell,” he shouted. “What kind of agents do you have on your team, Parks? Why the hell wasn’t Polinsky secured before you started treatment? At the very least, why wasn’t your agent’s weapon secured? That’s not even Training 101!”
Spinning and pinning the young, terrified man with a look, he added, “You better hope your boss is more lenient than I am if you plan to have a career in law enforcement.” Then turning away, he began muttering all sorts of things Juliana couldn’t hear.
She might not be able to hear, but she could see just fine. “Professor?” He looked over. “You’re bleeding.”
He crossed his arms. “Of course I’m bleeding. He fucking shot me.”
“Technically, he fired the weapon, and your leg got in the way when you kicked out,” Ethan said.
Griswold’s gaze narrowed. “You are lucky you work in the private sector, son.”
Ethan grinned.
“Should we tend to that?” Juliana suggested, pointing at the blood seeping through his cargos, turning the khaki material a deep brown.
“Paramedics are on their way,” one of the agents said.
Griswold didn’t just roll his eyes, he rolled his head. “Are we sure the scene is secure enough to let them in?”
“It’s secure. He’s secure,” the agent who’d been tending to Polinsky stuttered. The look Griswold shot him had the young man looking longingly for the gun Polinsky had lifted from him. It lay twenty feet away.
“It’s evidence now, Streeter,” Parks barked. “Leave it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, testing the tightness of the handcuffs Polinsky now wore. Although, his hands were in front of him, rather than behind him like in books and movies. Juliana wondered if they would stop him from using a weapon again if he could get his hands on one.
“Parks,” Griswold barked.
She sighed. “Get his ankles, too,” she directed the agent, then turning to the professor, she added, “Once he’s on the stretcher, he’ll be properly secured.”
