Page 45 of Kane's Awakening
Ryker.
Fuck, I was probably about to die, and yet, his face was all I saw. His damn smile and kind, blue eyes. Why had I pushed him away? Fear of him someday hurting me had made me reject the idea of even trying with him.
I rose again and aimed through the broken window. The guy was young. Too young. Probably only my age. Time stood still. My gut knotted and my pulse raced, sending what felt like electric currents zapping all through my veins. My finger shook on the trigger, as did my whole fucking hand.
I had my shot—one I was sure would take him down. But even with all of that going through my mind—seconds that felt like hours—only one heartbeat had passed. Maybe two.
His eyes locked onto mine and he raised his own gun.
I pulled the trigger… and he fell.
More cruisers appeared then, their sirens wailing all around, and officers came onto the scene. They had their guns raised and burst through the door, causing the other men inside to surrender. I made sure Harry had help before I went inside to assist in the arrests.
Bags of pills were sorted on the table, as was a white powdery substance in other baggies that I guessed was probably cocaine. And hell fucking fire, there was meth, too, still in a crystal-like form.
A fucking drug house. They were dealers by the look of it. No wonder they’d opened fire on us with having all that shit out in the open.
The other officers had it handled, so I walked around. Some of the furniture was ratty and worn. Stains marked the carpet in areas; some looked to have been spilled drinks, while others looked like burn marks from dropped cigarettes. I came to a halt when my eyes locked onto something.
My throat tightened, and I almost puked right there on the carpet. The guy I’d shot.
He’d fallen back and had landed at an awkward angle; his left leg under his body—twisted almost. And his eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling as blood trickled between his eyes and down his face. I’d put a bullet right in the center of his skull.
His face would haunt me for the rest of my life.
***
The next day, I had to turn in my gun and start the interview process. It was something they did with every officer who shot or killed someone while on duty. After turning in my gun, I was called into a room where I was required to make a statement about what had happened. The formal statement had to be handwritten and then it was added to the report from the incident.
After I gave my statement, they asked me a set of questions.
All standard procedure. My captain said I had nothing to worry about, especially if the shooting was proven justified—which it would be—but it still made me anxious.
I’d never used my gun before last night.
And now I’ve killed someone.
My hands trembled at the memory as I sat in the chair, awaiting further instruction.
I hadn’t slept since it happened, even though I was mentally and physically drained. Every time I closed my eyes, I’d see the blood and hear the shouts, and then I’d get up and pace. I hadn’t even gone home; I’d stayed in the station all night.
“Matthews?” my captain said, coming into the room.
I stood, nearly falling back into the chair at the sudden movement, but steadying myself before I did. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m putting you on administrative leave,” he said. I gritted my teeth, hating the thought of not being able to work. “Just for the rest of the week. Get that sour look off your face. I’m also setting you up with a psychologist to—”
“Sir, I don’t need a shrink. I’m fine.”
“That’s mandatory. No arguing.” He pinned me with a stare. “It’s to protect both our asses. You need to be given the okay to get back to work, and the only way to do that is through psychological evaluation, to prove you’re of sound mind to continue on the force.”
“Yes, sir.”
The harshness on his face lessened some, and he went over and sat down at his desk. “Areyou okay?”
I nodded without even thinking. And then I froze, remembering the night. Recalling the fear and anxiety of being in the moment, and the trauma of taking a life. “Actually, I don’t know, sir.”
It was damn difficult to admit such a thing to my superior. The last thing I wanted was for him to think me weak.
