Page 56 of Stella's Christmas Rescue
“No. We thought he was with you. Over,” Alex says.
“He went after the shooter. Over.”
“Dammit,” Michael shouts.
I frantically ask, “What?”
“I don’t know, but he’s leaving me his radio,” Alex says. Then, I hear in the background, “Can’t take the Marine out of him, the dumbass. Anybody gotta gun? I gotta go help my boy.”
“Yeah!” someone shouts.
More relief. I hate the idea of Jordan out there alone. But I know they can’t hear me, if I can hear them. Two-ways aren’t like cell phones. You can’t both speak at the same time. Once there’s silence again, I ask, “Alex, you there? Over.”
“Yeah. Over.”
“I need you to call my handler, Wes Jennings.” I give him the number, then tell him, “Let him know everything that’s happening. He’ll bring help.”
“Will do. And Michael just ran out after Jordan. Does he know what he’s doing?”
A new voice says, “Eh, yeah. Michael goes hunting all the time. Over.”
I blurt, “Who the hell is this? Over.”
“David. I work with Michael and Jordan. Michael isn’t used to being hunted back, but yeah, he hunts a lot. He should be fine as far as the shooting goes, not so sure about being shot at, over.”
My foot bounces fast. “What can I do?”
“Sit tight. As long as you’re not getting shot at, I think you’re okay, right? Over,” David says.
My foot is even more frenetic. “Yeah, I guess. Any guns in the firehouse? I know how to use them. Over.”
“Not unless one of the guys has a piece in his locker. Over.”
“Damn. I guess I can’t help. Over.” Which is exactly how everything feels. Over.
My hand tightens on the two-way as every stupid mistake I have ever made replays in my mind. I’m the reason why my brother was shot. I’m the reason why Jordan and Michael are out there, about to get themselves killed. I’m why Wes might lose his job. Everything is all my fault. Tears stream down my face as I announce to the office, “I ruin everything.”
Silence answers me back.
I can’t stay here and let everything fall apart. I keep letting everyone else clean up my messes and take care of me. Even when I had trouble finding those exotic extracts, I let Riker handle it.
He said, “I can do this for you, Love, don’t trouble yourself.” I always hated when he called me ‘Love’, because we weren’t in love, but he’s English, so that’s what he used for my pet name. And I said yes, because I always let men fix my problems for me. I let him call me whatever he wanted, as long as he fixed things for me. I am weak.
No. I am not weak. Not anymore. This is bullshit. It’s time I do something on my own. With a head full of steam, I unlock the door and throw it open. My heart stops at the sight and I drop the two—way. It breaks on the floor.
“’ello, Love.”
19
While I track down the shooter, I can hear Briggs’, my commander’s, voice in my head, “Don’t let them know you’re coming.”
Too late.
“Don’t go alone.”
Also, too late.
“And if you can’t follow the rules, be lucky.”
