Page 39 of Mine To Break
Chapter Sixteen
“I warn you—it’s not much to look at,” Colby said as he pulled into his parking spot. “But it’s cheap, and that’s all I cared about when I signed the lease. Then I just never took the time to find a new place.”
Mal looked around the apartment complex and silently agreed. The outside of the three-story building was ugly and squat, the siding long ago faded into a miserable gray by the brutal Texas heat. Tiny postage-stamp balconies not even big enough for a gas grill—and a few looked so rusted that she’d be afraid to step foot outside for fear it’d collapse. He came around the truck and helped her out, allowing her to lead the way up the poorly lit and badly cracked sidewalk. It looked more like a drug dealer’s crack house than a cop’s home.
God, the smell. Old, musty, urine. Hopefully pet and not human. Decades of cigarettes had also been smoked on that front stoop. Worse, he had a basement apartment, so they had to go down a half-flight of steps to his door, increasing the old earthy, damp smell and the sense of claustrophobia. No wonder he always scanned the bushes and shadows. This place was downright creepy.
The thought that her soldier boy had been living like this, punishing himself for years, damned near broke her heart.
He bumped into her, crowding her toward the door. Surprised, she glanced back at him. Without looking at her, he pushed his key into her hand.
“Unlock the door and then go straight through to the bathroom,” he whispered, his voice low but urgent. “Lock the door and call 911.”
“What? Why?”
“Go, Mal. Now!”
She saw it then—a black SUV slowly headed up the road toward them, window sliding downward as she watched. Gun in hand, Colby backed against her, protecting her. Shielding her with his own body.
Heart pounding, she shoved the key into the lock and threw the door open, fully expecting him to duck inside after her. Instead, he blocked the door, reaching behind him until he could find the handle and yank the door shut. God. She wanted to screech at him to get his butt in here pronto. Where it was safe. Even knowing it was his job, that he took very seriously, it still made her sick to think of him out there facing danger. Protecting her.
Sobbing, she ran through the dark room, hoping that he didn’t have any weird furniture out in the way, but the hallway was empty. In seconds, she was safe, light on, phone out, and operator asking what her emergency was. “I’m at a cop’s apartment, Detective Colby Wade, and he told me to call for help.”
Even then, it all seemed so surreal. Until she heard the gunfire.
“Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you all right?”
Her hand shook and she almost dropped the phone. Her heart pounded so hard she had to lean against the door a moment, waiting for the black spots to pass from her vision. “Someone’s shooting outside!”
“Is that the detective or a gunman?”
“I don’t know.” It came out more of a wail. She detested not knowing what was happening. If he was all right. More gunfire, and then the sound of squealing tires. Was he lying in the street? Bleeding to death? She had to find out. She raced back through the darkened apartment, listened at the door a moment, and heard nothing. No screams or shouts or moans, let alone gunfire. So she opened the door.
Colby stumbled inside and fell against her. She wrapped her free arm around him, slowing his descent, but she couldn’t keep him on his feet. She went down with him, keeping his head up. Her hand came away with blood and for the first time in her life, she wanted to throw her head back and wail.
However, when she spoke into the phone, her voice remained calm. He needed her at her best. “He’s been shot. His stomach, I think. He’s conscious, but unable to stand.” She set the phone aside and cradled his head in her lap. “What can I do?”
“Elias,” he ground out. “Call him.”
She searched his pockets and found his beat-up ancient flip phone. Thankfully Elias was his number one caller so it was easy to hit redial.
“Didn’t I tell you to go home?”
“I need help. Colby’s been shot.” Tears burned her eyes and her voice quivered. “What do I do?”
“Where are you?”
“His apartment.” She could hear tires squealing and the sudden roar of an engine. Elias must have been on his way home too.
“I’m on way. Did you call 911?”
“Yes. They’re on my phone.”
“Where’s the wound?”
“His stomach.” Her voice broke. She could only imagine how many organs were torn up. “He’s bleeding pretty badly.”
“Put pressure on it. A coat, a shirt, something. Just wad it up and press it hard, as hard as you can.”
