Page 113 of Only the Devil

Not Jake. Me.

A loud, ear-splitting sound rips through the air.

Thompson drops forward.

With a second crack, the stranger stumbles back. I dive for the wall before I can think.

No — I need to cover Jake.

But Jake’s holding a gun.

He’s on the ground.

He shot off two rounds while lying on his back.

The stranger’s on the ground, but he’s moving.

I blink, and open my mouth, “J-J-J…”

My God, what is wrong with me? I don’t stutter. It’s like my brain can’t process — the taser, the gunshots, Jake shooting from the ground — everything moved so fast my nervous system is trying to catch up. A sharp pain stabs my chest and I clutch at my sternum.

“Breathe,” Jake wheezes. He grimaces, curling in on his side.

I suck in air. Try again.

“Jake,” I finally get out.

“Call 911. My chest. Hurts like a fucker.”

My fingers tremble as they press against Jake’s chest, searching for the wound.

“Phone. Call.” I force myself up, fighting dizziness, and fumble for my phone in my back pocket. “First,” he grits out. “Grab his gun.”

“Is it your heart?” I ask, worried far more about Jake than the stranger on the ground.

The man groans; his gun moves; I freeze.

A bright light flashes, and a second ear-splitting crack rings out.

Jake’s head lolls back and he heaves.

“Call. For. Help.”

Right. Right.

Jake just shot the man — again — from the ground.

My legs go weak. Kneeling, I dial 911.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“Shots fired,” I say, my voice shaking. “At the private hangar on Route 47, near the data center. Multiple people shot. I need an ambulance.”

“Ma’am, are you safe? Are the shooters still there?”

I glance down at Thompson and the other man — both motionless. Jake’s gun is still in his hand, but his breathing is ragged. “The shooters are down. But the man who stopped them — he’s hurt. He has a heart condition and was tased. He’s conscious, but his chest hurts.”

“Is he breathing?”