Page 15 of Under Cover
Garcia almost wept. God. He was alive. Sewell might not make it, but Crosby could radio for help. Gingerly he picked his way around Sewell, making sure to kick the gun he found far down the stairs as he continued.
“Crosby?”
Crosby was sitting upright on a bed that took up maybe half the room, talking into his radio while fighting for breath. The bed—a four poster—looked directly out the half window that made up half a wall in the tiny little room, and Garcia had a fleeting, aching impression of two lovers in this room looking out into the city and pretending the new day was starting for them alone.
“Yeah,” Crosby gasped, clutching his side. “Runner’s safe. Sewell’s down. Ambulance is on its way.” He glanced up at Garcia and gave a ragged smile. “New guy isn’t dead.” Crosby winced as a very irate voice came in through his earbud, and then grimaced at Garcia just as Garcia’s came online.
“How is he?” Clint Harding said, sounding very, very worried.
“I think he took a round in the vest,” Garcia said, glaring at Crosby. Crosby nodded and struggled for breath again, his arm wrapped around his middle.
“Any broken ribs?” Clint asked.
Garcia watched Crosby labor for breath and hazarded a guess. “Cracked at the very least,” he said. “He’s definitely getting sent in for X-rays.”
Crosby glared. “Traitor!” he mouthed.
Garcia rolled his eyes. “Where’s the kid?” he mouthed back.
“What about the victim in the club?” Clint asked.
“Medics had just arrived when I came to back up Crosby, sir.”
There was an arctic silence over the comms. “He left you to come after the perpetrator?”
“We had reason to believe our boy was at risk, sir,” Garcia said, looking Crosby dead in the eye. “Detective Crosby probably saved the kid’s life.”
“I’m sure he did,” Clint snapped. “Make sure he gets his ass to the hospital. Tell him I want X-rays before he’s cleared for active. We’ll be on scene in ten. Goddammit, that kid needs to take a breath before he rushes into things.”
The comm clicked and went dead, and Garcia let loose his own sigh of relief before sinking to his haunches and looking under the bed.
Kurt Armbruster was a good-looking kid—he had been on his ID shot during the presentation that morning anyway. But his pale brown skin was smudged with dust and grease and tears, and what had probably been a nice pressed button-down was torn and none too clean.
“Hey,” Garcia murmured. “It’s all right. You’re safe. Come on out.”
Kurt nodded, but he didn’t move.
“’M I crushing him?” Crosby gasped, and Garcia glared at him, then decided to use it as an advantage.
“Look, buddy, my partner probably has a couple of cracked ribs, so if he has to get up, it’s gonna hurt. Let’s save him the pain of standing up to pull you out, okay? He took a bullet for you.”
Armbruster nodded reluctantly, and Garcia bent to help him crawl out from under the bed before sitting him on top of it and covering both their shoulders with the comforter. The kid was shaking from head to toe, probably shock, and Crosby looked like he was fighting the same condition all the way.
“Ooh, Crosby,” Garcia murmured when Armbruster was settled, leaning his head against Crosby’s shoulder, “Daddy’s mad at you.”
Crosby nodded. “Figured.”
“I’m not too happy myself,” he muttered, “but I’m glad the kid’s all right.”
Crosby took another gulp of air. “You ready for that transfer yet?”
Garcia met his eyes directly and took a mighty risk by smoothing that dark blond hair from the pale brow. “Not on your life,” he said, meaning every syllable.
Crosby’s lips twitched back in a smile, but he was still trying to catch his breath, so it didn’t last long.
Hospitals Suck But Nobody Else Does
CROSBY HADgotten a scholarship to Illinois State University playing defensive back. He’d been injured in his senior year—two cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder—and had barely escaped going pro.
