“No.” He closes his eyes again, pressing the fresh towels to his side. “Too high profile for them. Won’t go against FBI.”
Right. That makes sense. Peter’s new crew are not criminals; they’re paid to protect us from the dangerous people in Peter’s past, not help us escape the authorities.
Which means they couldn’t have been behind that shot.
“Peter…” I glance over, but he’s out again, his head lolling to the side.
Ice coats my insides. “Peter, wake up. You need to tell me what to do next.”
No response, just the frantic hammering of my pulse in my ears.
I reach over to shake his knee, but he doesn’t react, and I see that he’s no longer holding the paper towels, his hand slack at his side.
My ribcage feels like it’s shrunk to the size of a child’s, crushing all the organs inside.
This can’t be happening.
It can’t end like this.
“Peter.” My voice cracks. “Peter, please… I need you. You can’t do this to me.”
He can’t die and abandon me. Not after fighting so hard for us.
Not after making me love him.
“Wake up, Peter.” I shake his knee harder. “Please wake up.”
But he doesn’t.
He’s too far gone.
33
Sara
Feeling like the car walls are closing in on me, I grab his wrist and search for a pulse.
It’s there.
Weak and erratic but there.
A sob of relief bursts from my throat, and the road in front of me blurs.
He’s still alive.
Passed out but alive.
With a herculean effort, I pull myself together. I can’t fall to pieces, not while there’s still a sliver of hope.
First things first. I need to treat Peter’s wound. It can’t wait any longer. Then the car. I have to assume they’re looking for it, and it’s only a matter of time before we’re spotted on the road. That means I need to find us another ride.
The question is how.
If Peter were conscious, he could probably steal one for us, but I don’t possess such a skill set. I need to come up with some other solution, something that won’t slow us down too much.
An exit sign appears ahead, and I realize we’re almost to Advocate Lutheran hospital.
My heart skips a beat, then races faster. Maybe I should bring him in. Right now, before the authorities know we’re here.
Before more SWAT agents show up and shoot him dead for killing so many of their own, all the while claiming self-defense.
They’d have to treat him at the ER if I brought him in. They’d have to save him. And when the cops arrive, they won’t be able to kill him with all those witnesses around. They’ll have to let him recover before carting him away.
Before locking him up in Guantanamo or some other dark hole for the rest of his life.
Even if he’s found innocent in the bombing, they’ll never let him out—and sooner or later, they’ll take their revenge.
If I bring Peter in, I’ll never see him again. But if I don’t, he’ll bleed to death.
Even now, it might be too late. I might lose him like I just lost my parents.
Choking down the suffocating fear, I switch into the exit lane and pull off the highway, heading toward the hospital. When I get there, I find a parking spot under a tree, between an SUV and a van.
“We should be well hidden here.” My voice shakes as I turn to Peter. “Now I’m going to look at your wounds, okay?”
He doesn’t respond, but I don’t expect him to.
Reaching over his lap, I lower his seat to a reclining position. Then I lift his shirt and examine the gunshot wound on his side.
There is an exit hole, and given its location, there’s a good chance the bullet missed vital organs. If I disinfect the wound and stop the bleeding, he might make it without a hospital.
Holding my breath, I swiftly examine the rest of him. I find a gun strapped to his left ankle, but it’s not an injury, so I ignore it. I then discover that a bullet grazed his left arm and another went through his right calf.
Both wounds are still bleeding, but neither appears to be life-threatening.
I exhale, trembling as I squeeze his limp hand in relief.
I know what to do now.
I just need a little luck on our side.
Leaning over him, I smooth back his blood-crusted hair. “Hang in there, darling, please. I’ll be right back, I promise. Just hang in there for me.”
I can do this.
I have to do this.
Pulling back, I sit up straight and flip down the mirror to look at myself. As expected, I’m just as much of a mess as Peter, my face pale and tear-streaked, with smears of blood and bits of gore all over my skin and clothes.
Good thing the staff in the ER have seen worse.
“Be back in a few,” I whisper, giving his hand one last squeeze, and jumping out of the car, I run across the parking lot to the ER entrance.