He reached for his shoulder mounted radio and pressed the button, then leaned over to murmur, “Riker. Zone seven clear. One student caught.”
“Description.” The single word was barked out.
He flicked his gaze back to me and narrowed his eyes. “Female, redhead, blue eyes, tall. Pretty,” he added, slowly lowering his gaze from my face, down my body and back up again. A disgusting smirk lifted his lips.
My stomach rebelled.
Nerves and fear mingled in my stomach, churning painfully. I lunged forward as my body expelled my lunch on my attacker’s boots.
I clapped a hand over my mouth and cringed back as he roared with fury. I closed my eyes, waiting for the inevitable, and said goodbye to my mom and dad.
The blow never came. Instead, I heard curses and the buzz of his com. I staggered, my head spinning, my stomach roiling, still not at all sure I’d be allowed to live. But the guard was ignoring me now or, at least, he was ignoring my contribution to his boots. He was murmuring something into his radio, occasionally glancing at me with narrowed eyes that made me want to vomit again.
“It might be her.” The man on the other end of the radio said, his voice rising loud enough that I could hear. “Check your phone.”
The guard glared at me and pulled a cell phone out of his front vest pocket. The sound of my too-loud breathing filled the silence.
When he looked back up from whatever he’d been sent, the guard’s smile had returned but, this time, the leer was gone. Replacing it was satisfaction, like he’d accomplished something great.
It might be her…
The words echoed through my mind. I might be who? Who were they looking for? I threw my hands up and backed away from the guard, who’d hauled out a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and was advancing toward me without a thought for his soiled boots.
“I’m nobody!” I insisted, taking another step back. “I promise. I’m nobody.”
But he wouldn’t listen and, when the back of my thighs hit a table top hard enough to leave a bruise, I knew I’d lost. I sucked in as much air as I could, remembering my high school gym teacher’s instructions on self-defense. You couldn’t defend yourself if you deprived your muscles and brain of oxygen.
His hand shot out.
I lunged forward, moving instinctively, and slammed the outside of my forearm into his throat. The impact of the hit vibrated through my body, stunning me for a second but I didn’t have time to freeze.
Everything I’d practiced in gym class came rushing back in surprising clarity. As he grabbed his throat, gasping for air, I spun in place, putting all my weight behind the strike, and rammed my elbow into the middle of his chest.
His eyes bugged out in pain.
I reached for his shoulders and shifted my stance, preparing to deliver the final blow to his family jewels and remembered Joey O’Connell’s face when I’d managed to land the knee to the groin move back in grade twelve. He’d kept a grudge for weeks, just about as long as he’d walked funny.
Pain exploded in my ribs. I crumpled, grabbing for my side, and cursing myself for not moving faster.
“Bitch.” The guard was blue and pale and very angry. I’d taken him by surprise before and knew I’d lost that advantage. He pulled back an arm.
An incoherent roar filled the room, echoing off the walls as someone wearing a dark hoodie and jeans rushed into the room wielding what looked like a crow bar and slammed it into the guard’s shoulder, making him crumple to the floor with a shout.
My savior rushed past the fallen guard, still holding the piece of metal, and reached for me. “Hurry,” he urged in a familiar voice that sparked hope in my chest.
Strong hands pulled me to my feet and started tugging me toward the door. From the floor, the guard moaned and struggled to his knees. My eyes felt glued to him, to his hand, which reached immediately for the gun that had skittered across the floor.
I screamed as his fingers closed around the weapon.
My savior spun around and cursed when he saw what was happening. Again, he roared, as if the sheer force of his voice could stop the guard from using his gun. He sprinted forward, throwing himself on top of the bigger man without pause.
I backed away from the fight, eyes so wide they hurt. The hood had fallen back from my savior's face, revealing his identity. The last time I’d seen Xavier, I’d yelled at him, and now here he was, risking his life for mine. Shame mixed with the terror in my veins.
The guard elbowed Xavier in the ribs, eliciting a grunt of pain from my teacher, but he was apparently stronger than he looked. With a move that would have had my highschool gym teacher cheering, Xavier swung his leg around the guard’s shoulder and flipped him over. In an instant, he was on him again, trying to get the gun free.
It happened fast. The guard shoved Xavier hard, pushing him back enough to swing the gun up between them. I saw Xavier’s eyes go wide with shock as the room exploded with the sound and smell of gunfire. He jerked back and grabbed his side, then raised his blood covered hands slowly.
The guard shifted, pulling his legs out from under Xavier and lifted the gun again, pointing it at the middle of Xavier’s forehead. He grinned and began to squeeze the trigger.
Xavier’s hand shot out, faster than anything I’d ever seen before, and knocked the gun to the side. It fired and the bullet hit the drywall behind him, then, somehow, it was in Xavier’s hand and the room exploded with the rapport.
The guard’s eyes went wide then shifted to find me. He stared for a long moment, and I watched as his eyes filled with rage and hate, then faded to dark and unseeing. His spine seemed to disintegrate and he fell, lifeless, to the floor.
A sob of terrified relief wrenched from my throat and I began to gasp. I fell to my knees and bent forward, my breath hitching uncontrollably, as I fought for air. Panic sounded like a thousand bees in my brain, buzzing too loudly for me to think straight. My gaze darted from the dead guard to Xavier, who was still holding his stomach, his eyes dark and unfocused.
I smelled blood, so much blood I could taste it. The floor was slick with it as it spread from the guard’s body towards my shoes. I scrambled back, away from the thick red proof of death, until my back hit the wall next to the shattered drywall.
Xavier’s low grunt of pain and quick exhalation caught my attention enough to draw my gaze from the slowly spreading river of crimson. My gaze flitted over his drawn face, his bared teeth, then down to his hands. More blood seeped through his fingers and dripped onto his jeans.
“You’re bleeding,” I heard myself speak in what sounded like a normal tone and wondered if I was broken. How could I be so casual? One man was dead and another bleeding out, in front of me. I had to be broken.
I looked down at my hands, looking for my own blood, and frowned. I wasn’t bleeding, I wasn’t torn or broken.
Xavier swayed then sat down with a thump. Color drained from his skin and his eyes rolled back for an instant before he regained focus.
“Holy shit, you were shot,” I said on a gasp as my body moved of its own accord, rushing to his side to keep him steady. He leaned into me and began to shake violently.
My memories of high school health class returned in a flash. We’d all been certified in First Aid before graduation and had learned how to treat fractures, wounds, and burns during the week long training. I remembered the picture in the booklet with the woman whose guts had been coming out.
In a million years I would have never thought I’d need to remember how to treat a gunshot to the abdomen.
“Lie on your back,” I ordered Xavier, keeping my voice low in case another guard showed up to see what was taking so long.
Xavier slumped into my arms and let me lay him gently on the floor as nerves and panic spurred me on. I needed to see the wound.