Time slowed to a crawl, although it could only have been a few seconds. Movement at the back of the balcony on his left was followed immediately by Carly’s cry of “No! No!” Then Carly’s .22 was in her hands as she squared up and took aim at the corner of the balcony farthest from her. The crack of a rifle preceded another gunshot by a fraction of a second, so close together one appeared to be the echo of the other.
Screams split the air. Panicked bodies blocked Shane’s view for a moment as most of the crowd frantically clawed its way toward the exits. He grasped the railing with his right hand and clutched his gun with his left as he pushed and shoved and stumbled over dozens of feet in his mad haste to reach Carly.
He neared the far end and made the turn around the curving balcony, then saw two men struggling for possession of a rifle. Bright blood stained the left arm of the shorter man. The other was Niall. Shane didn’t consciously decide his brother didn’t need his help incapacitating the sniper—he just knew. His gaze swung right, and despite the press of bodies jostling Carly as they surged toward the staircase, he could see her standing frozen, as if in a state of shock. He followed the crowd until he reached her side, then wrapped his arms tightly around her, shielding her with his body against the buffeting tide of humanity that threatened to sweep her away.
He dragged her—without resistance—to one side. He thrust his Beretta into his pants pocket, took Carly’s .22 from her unresisting grasp and stashed that in his pocket, too, then pressed her head against his shoulder. She was saying something over and over, and he bent his head to hear her above the noise of the mob. “No,” she whispered, her eyes wide and dark in the dim light as she clung to him, her body trembling uncontrollably. “No, no, no.”
“It’s okay,” he told her roughly. “You’re okay.” He didn’t know what else to say. Then he realized he’d used the exact same words she’d used toward him during his last episode. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” The helpless words of someone who couldn’t bear to be helpless.
All of a sudden a half dozen FBI agents—part of the contingent Niall had arranged to be there—swarmed them with their guns drawn. “You okay, Senator Jones?” one man barked at him. “You weren’t hit?”
“No,” he confirmed. “I’m fine.” He angled his head toward the far corner of the balcony. “The shooter’s up there. But I don’t think he’s a threat anymore.”
He glanced over his shoulder and saw exactly what he’d expected to see. Niall had the sniper pinned to the wall, incapacitated, the man’s right arm at a sharp angle behind his back. The left arm hung uselessly, the bloodstain there much larger now.
He turned back to Carly. “You got him,” he said in a low voice, his heart squeezing at the aftereffects of the shooting still holding her in their cruel grip. The shakes, his brain processed, remembering the first time he’d shot someone, and the reaction that had immediately followed. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m okay. You got him.”
* * *
The hours following the shooting dragged endlessly. As they’d been after the first sniper attack, as they’d been following the discovery of the car bomb, Shane and Carly were separated. Shane repeated his story endless times, each time identical to the first. But in between he kept asking about Carly. “She’s in shock,” he insisted. “You can’t question her when she’s in shock. I don’t need a lawyer, but she does.”
The third time he said it—to the third team of interrogators—one of the FBI agents laughed, but not unkindly. “Don’t worry, Senator Jones. She’s fine. And her recounting of the incident is as precise and detailed as yours is.”
“Is she under arrest? Because if she’s under arrest, she’s entitled to a lawyer before you—”
“Relax, sir. She’s not under arrest. We have no intention of arresting her. Two of our agents in the balcony witnessed the entire thing from start to finish. Her story matches what they saw. It also matches your story. And your brother’s.”