Page 62

While, just a few feet away, a female staffer was kicking the gun under the couch.
“Michael,” I hissed, rushing forward toward where he was slumped against the wall on the floor, his hand clutching his chest, blood seeping through his shirt and covering his fingers.
He was pale and sweating, his eyes round, and his breathing coming in short, frantic bursts.
“Hey,” I said, rushing toward him, and pressing my hand against his. I didn’t know much about gunshot wounds but I did know that you needed to put pressure on the wounds, to try to keep as much blood as possible inside. “It’s going to be okay,” I said as my computer monitor crashed to the ground. Then my pen holder, pens and pencils shot across the room as the men struggled to hold onto the shooter.
“I’m shot,” the senator said, his shocked gaze settling on me.
“I know,” I said, trying to ignore the way his blood was coating my fingers, how the copper smell of it seemed to be filling the room. He was losing too much. He needed an ambulance. “The police are on their way,” I assured him. “Just stay with me, okay?” I said, my voice taking on a hysterical edge as more of his blood streamed down my hand. “You’re going to be okay,” I added, sniffling hard as I watched his eyes start to unfocus, knowing he was slipping away.
“You’re not getting away, fucker,” Niel snarled as he struggled with the shooter who was grumbling at them in Russian. I didn’t speak a word of it, but it all seemed to be threats.
My belly plummeted at the idea that he might make good on those threats, that these innocent bystanders who were just trying to be Good Samaritans were going to end up targeted because, again, of me. Well, to be fair, because of the senator.
The senator whose eyes were slowly closing.
“No no no. Stay awake,” I cried, pressing my other hand into his neck, feeling for his pulse. It was there, but it seemed weak to me. “Michael, come on,” I said, tears welling up in my eyes. “Wake up,” I said as his hand went slack under mine, making me press harder as a few tears started to stream down my cheeks. “Don’t die,” I pleaded as I heard several feet running down the hall.
“Police,” they called.
Niel sprang into action then, explaining what happened as the police took control over the shooter, wrestling him to the floor, and cuffing him as the officer’s radios crinkled with static and faraway voices.
It felt like hours before the paramedics arrived, pushing me out of the way when I didn’t move aside by myself.
I fell on my ass against the wall, elbows on knees, wanting to bury my face in my hands, but they were covered in blood. Michael’s blood.
A sob grew in my chest as my office became a flurry of activity, the EMTs shooting off stats to each other, the clink of the stretcher as it was lowered to the ground, their grunts as they lifted Michael’s body onto the thin mattress and strapped him in before rushing out with him.
“Ma’am?” a voice called, sounding like it was coming from far away. “Ma’am?” he called again, but this time, he dropped down to a squat in front of me. “I need to ask you some questions,” he said as I spied the notepad in his hand.
“Okay,” I said numbly.
My own voice sounded like it was coming from a distance as I answered the officer’s questions, without giving too much detail, without admitting that the bullet was meant for me.
They seemed to assume that this was some sort of political assassination, especially since the last shooting out front of the building, and I just didn’t contradict them.
What did it matter who the intended target was?
He’d shot Michael.
If it came out in questioning that the shooter admitted the target was me, well, then I could deal with that if or when it came to pass.
I imagined that the Bratva had top-tier lawyers at their disposal. The man would likely not say a word until he had counsel. And I imagined the Bratva would rather find a way to kill this guy than to let him implicate them in his actions.
Eventually, the officers handed the case over to a detective who asked me many of the same questions that I answered in a robotic voice that didn’t seem to faze the detectives as they made me go over the scene a few times, giving them as many details as I could remember before they walked off to talk to the others.
I stayed there on the floor, oddly detached until I glanced over and saw the large pool of blood on the ground where the paramedics had lowered Michael to the floor to work on him before they got him onto the stretcher.
The sight of that seemed to knock the numbness loose, making tears well up in my eyes again, then stream down my cheeks.
“Oh, Elizabeth,” one of the female staffers said, coming up near me. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything? Can I call someone for you?”
“There’s no—“ I started, before cutting off, realizing there was someone I could call.
I reached with my cleaner hand into my pocket, pulling out my phone, and toggling through my contacts to find his name. “I’m okay,” I told her, even if the sniffling pretty quickly contradicted my assertion.
I found myself crying harder at the sound of his voice, “Is every—“