Dark Blue (South Island PD Book 1) (26 page)

Pushing open his car door, he stepped out into the street and closed it softly. A second later, the other officer did the same.

Jackson’s gladness evaporated on a dime, and every muscle in his body tensed as a sour taste filled his mouth.

Fucking Sanders. The asshole was the last person he wanted by his side, especially at a domestic. Couldn’t he ever catch a break?

Sanders walked up the street as if he owned the place.

“Seems like a bullshit call,” Sanders said, his gaze locking with Jackson’s. “I’d Sam it out if I were you.”

Jackson stopped himself before he could waste time asking Sanders whether he was fucking stupid. No sense in asking questions he already knew the answer to.

“I haven’t even knocked on the door yet.”

Sanders shrugged. “Have it your way, Super Cop. You got this, right?”

“What’s the matter – don’t like to be around your own kind?” Jackson saw the hate in Sanders’ eyes and threw it right back at him. “Does seeing other women beat up bother you in a way beating Kate doesn’t?”

Sanders’ eyes narrowed. “Don’t you fucking talk about what’s mine.”

His
. Jackson’s stomach roiled at hearing a person being snarled over like a possession.

Deliberately, he reached down and switched on his body cam.

It wasn’t to make Sanders uncomfortable so much as it was to keep himself in check. He couldn’t pound Sanders into the pavement with the camera running, and he needed that threat to keep a lid on his temper.

“I’m going to see what’s going on.” Jackson tipped his head toward the house.

Whether it was because the camera was rolling or simply because he was looking for an opportunity to make things difficult for Jackson, Sanders approached the house with him.

They climbed a short flight of creaking steps, and Jackson knocked on the front door, standing angled to the side as a safety precaution.

At first, there was nothing but silence. Jackson could practically feel the contempt radiating from Sanders, who stood behind him.

He knocked again.

The sound of shuffling footsteps came from the other side of the door, and the knob rattled.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up as the door creaked on its hinges. Whether that was some sort of sign or just a side-effect of being sandwiched between Sanders and another probable piece of trash just like him, there was no telling.

The door swung inward, but no light poured out. Jackson had to shine his flashlight inside to reveal the white face peering out at them.

“South Island Police,” he said, and barely managed not to step backward.

A woman stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but a cotton tank top and panties. Blood streamed from her nose, and her shirt was soaked with it. Jackson barely registered the presence of a wound in her shoulder before movement in the hallway behind her caught his eye.

The back of his neck prickled as he reached for the woman, instinctually pulling her toward him and away from the doorway.

A wordless grunt came from her throat and she blinked, looking shell shocked. Then the world exploded with noise.

Gunfire, to be exact. It rang in Jackson’s ears and echoed through the night.

She slumped against his chest like a sack of potatoes, and he didn’t realize he’d fallen until he hit the porch.

Pain swept through his skull and the wind rushed out of his lungs. He struggled to draw another breath, but it was more difficult than it should’ve been. The gunfire kept coming. He should’ve been able to count the rounds, but they came like hail, making his eardrums throb.

The woman on top of him couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and thirty pounds, but she felt like twice that. His body was slow to respond when he willed it to move, to get her off of him so he could reach for his gun.

He needed to do that, because he was pretty sure no one was returning fire. The bursts of noise echoed out from the house, and his fallen flashlight illuminated a pair of legs clad in men’s jeans. That was all he could see of his attacker.

What the fuck was Sanders doing, twiddling his thumbs?

Simultaneously straining to roll the woman off of him and away from the doorway, he turned his neck until it cramped with the effort of looking backward.

Sanders had jumped off the porch and was crouching by the steps, head down. He looked as if he was moving in slow motion as he grabbed his radio.

“Shots fired. Officer down.”

The gunfire stopped, and the ringing in Jackson’s ears was deafening.

Officer down. Had he been shot? Nothing hurt. There was blood all over the front of his uniform, but it seemed to have come from the woman.

Either she’d been shot or she’d passed out from the shock of the injuries she’d already had when she’d answered the door. He couldn’t tell. All he knew for sure was that he was shoulder-deep in one clusterfuck of a domestic, and Sanders wasn’t doing a damn thing to help.

He finally managed to roll, moving the woman across the porch and out of the shooter’s view. His body sheltered hers, and he remained that way for her sake – while she wore next to nothing, he had his Kevlar vest. He could afford to take a shot – she couldn’t.

She lay limp like a ragdoll, and he hoped to fuck she wasn’t dead. Reaching for his Glock, he finally got it out of the holster and raised it.

The hallway was dark, and he couldn’t see his attacker. His heartbeat roared in his ears – he could hear every drop of blood that moved through his veins. He could taste urgency on the tip of his tongue, threatening to explode into panic.

He tried to remember how many rounds had been fired. Had the shooter emptied his clip?

He waited for the sound of a magazine falling free, of another being inserted in its place. Pausing and listening felt as if it took an eternity, but he barely drew a single breath before he heard a shuffling sound from inside the doorway, and he fired reflexively.

Once, twice, three times.

The report from his Glock was explosive – louder than he remembered it ever being during training or at the range. His ears rang, and he was deaf to any other noise. There would be no more gauging where his attacker was by sound.

The metallic taste in his mouth crept deep into his throat, making it harder to breathe. Finally, he became aware of how uncomfortable it was to lie on the porch boards like he was.

His shoulder, ribs and hip ached on the side he lay on. The woman’s body was bony beneath his – her elbows and knees dug into him. Mostly though, the discomfort was in his left leg. It felt like a cement slab attached to his body, and it burnt from the hip to well past the knee. As soon as the pain registered, it took over.

He was burning alive, he was sure of it. And he was going to puke. His throat tightened and he heard a male voice, distorted as if he were listening from deep underwater.

“Motherfuckers! Fucking motherfuckers!”

Through watering eyes, he caught a flash of movement near the end of the hall, just past the gaping door.

He squeezed the trigger on his Glock, trying to maintain a count of how many rounds were left in the magazine.

He didn’t know, and he squeezed off whatever he had left at the center of the doorframe.

Dizziness pounced on him, and a shockwave swept through his skull as his head tipped back against the floorboards.

He blinked, suddenly aware of all the light: streetlight and the neighborhood porch lights, flickering on and off like fireflies in July. Out of the corner of one eye, he even thought he caught the red strobe of emergency lights, but he wasn’t sure.

Maybe it was just wishful thinking. Everything went black before he could find out.

* * * * *

Belle reached through the darkness, stretching her hand toward the guiding light of the cellphone on her bedside stand. It chimed and vibrated, rattling against the wood. When she picked it up, it sent vibrations up her arm and down her spine.

The room was cold. Jackson was working nights again, and she wished he was there. She’d gotten used to his body heat so quickly.

She had to pull the charger out before she could bring the phone close enough to get a good look at the screen. It was half past midnight, and she was hard-pressed to think of who might be calling so late.

The number was unfamiliar, with a local area code. Curiosity drove her to swipe her finger across the screen.

“Hello?” Despite the fact that she’d only been asleep for about an hour, her voice was gritty.

“Belle?”

“Yes?” The voice was male, and she couldn’t place it.

“This is Elijah Bennett – Jackson’s roommate.”

“Okay.” When he identified himself, it clicked – she remembered his voice and the face that went with it.

Ice water began to trickle into her veins. Why would he call her, especially in the middle of the night?

“Are you at home?” he asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Jackson was involved in an altercation at work. I don’t mean to scare you, but he was injured. They took him to the hospital. I thought you’d want to know.”

“You thought right.” The trickle turned into a flood, and she shivered. “What happened – how badly is he hurt?”

Her voice crept higher with every word, and her throat felt tight. As she waited for his reply, she could hear her own heartbeat. It was the only sound in her dark bedroom, besides the low hum of the central air chilling the apartment.

“I’m not sure how bad the damage is, but he was shot.”

Belle’s stomach clenched, leaving her breathless. “Where?”

“I’m not sure. I’m on my way to the hospital right now. Do you want to meet me there?”

“Yes.” She threw her legs over the side of the bed and hurried across the room, stubbing her toe on the closet door. Without bothering to turn on the lights, she grabbed the first articles of clothing that met her fingertips. “Which hospital did they take him to?”

“South Island Hospital.”

She tried to breathe a sigh of relief, but couldn’t. At least she could get there fast and didn’t have to drive onto the mainland.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Don’t rush and get yourself hurt too. I’ll be there before you will – drive safe.”

After ending the call, the phone slipped out of her sweat-slicked palms. She pulled on jeans and a tank top before picking it up again, slipping on her sandals and grabbing her phone and purse before running out the door.

Her heart brutalized her ribs as she slammed the key into the ignition. Jackson could be dying, for all she knew. The idea was nearly paralyzing, but her lead foot worked in her favor, for once.

When she reached the hospital, she parked in the nearest legal space she could get and hurried through the ER entrance.

She was nearly inside when her phone started buzzing.

Mariah.

“Hello?” She answered without pausing, sweeping through the glass doors into a brightly lit waiting room.

“Belle, I don’t want to freak you out, but Jackson was just brought into the ER. I—”

“I know. I just got here.”

“Oh.” Mariah sounded surprised, then relieved. “Okay. I only have a second, but—”

“How bad is it? Where was he shot?” The half a dozen or so people in the waiting room stared at her as if she were from Mars.

She didn’t give a shit.

“His left leg – the thigh.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. There were vital arteries in the thigh, and a bullet could easily sever one or shatter a bone.

He could lose his leg. He could lose his life. Or he could come away from it with nothing but a battle scar.

“How bad?”

“He’s lost a lot of blood – he needs a transfusion. They’re taking him into surgery.”

Belle’s breath hitched, and her internal focus shifted. The fluorescent ER lights felt like floodlights, blinding her as her heart dangled over a dark pit.

“I’m sorry,” Mariah said. “I have to go. Technically, I’m not supposed to be talking about this. I’ll find you as soon as I can catch a break, okay?”

Belle nodded, her throat too tight for words to pass through.

A figure in dark blue moved into the field of her vision.

Her heart leapt despite the facts when she saw the uniform, the shine of the fluorescent lighting on the badge – she associated that uniform with Jackson.

But it was Elijah.

He placed a hand on her upper arm, steadying her as if he was afraid she’d crumple to the floor. “Hey, Belle. Glad to see you made it here okay.”

Part of her felt like collapsing, but her spine was a steel rod, channeling the need to find Jackson and keeping her upright with purpose.

“Where is he?”

“They just took him into surgery.”

The knots in her stomach tumbled against each other like marbles. There was still so much she didn’t know: little details that could be the difference between life and death.

“Come on.” Elijah pulled her away from the prying eyes in the emergency room and toward the doors. “Let’s get some fresh air, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

The air was hot and muggy. The hospital was located centrally on the island, away from the sea breezes.

For the first time, Belle noticed four police vehicles parked by the emergency entrance, near where an ambulance idled, emblazoned with a reflective South Island Rescue logo.

EMTs brought out a patient on a stretcher – a nameless person who wasn’t Jackson.

Belle watched, feeling detached, as if she were looking into a crystal ball or through a telescope.

“Jackson was shot while responding to a domestic disturbance. A man had been violent toward his girlfriend, and when Jackson got there, he started shooting. The gunman is in custody now, but he shot his girlfriend twice – she’s in critical condition – and Jackson three times.”

“Three times?” Belle’s voice came out strangled. “I thought he was only hit once, in the thigh!”

Elijah looked taken aback.

“My best friend is an ER nurse here,” Belle said as a feeling of betrayal swallowed her. “She didn’t say—”

“He was hit twice in the thigh, and another bullet grazed his shoulder. They say that one’s nothing to worry about.”

“What about the other two?”

“He was bleeding a lot when they brought him in. They’re giving him a blood transfusion.”

“Why does he need surgery?”

“One of the bullets is still in there and they’re going to remove it so it doesn’t migrate and do further damage. Apparently, it’s pretty close to an artery.”

Belle nodded, her neck stiff. “Honestly, how worried should I be?”

She was going to be freaking out inside no matter what, but she needed to know how justified it’d be.

“I’m not sure. It’s not good, but it could be worse. They expect the transfusion to pull him through the blood loss, but I have no idea what kind of shape his leg will be in when this is all said and done. There are no broken bones, but as for nerve and muscle damage…”

She sucked in a breath and bit her lip, hard, so it couldn’t escape.

“Why was he shot again?”