Page 66 of Trigger Discipline
Instead, he took his hand, fingers intertwining to keep them from shaking. Blake stumbled a little behind him, still not fully awake. They jumped the curb and didn’t stoprunning until they were around the corner, their breathing ragged.
“Fuck man,” Judd said, running his hands through his hair, eyes wide. “You guys have to stop doing that shit. My heart can’t take it.”
Tommy shoved him aside. His hands were bloody, his face drawn, but he snatched Blake’s hand from Gabriel’s so he could hold them. “Are you okay?” he scanned Blake’s face.
Sluggishly, Blake shrugged. “I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve been hit in the head.”
Tommy whimpered and dragged him into a hug. Blake only grumbled a little.
Gabriel swiped the sweat from his face, heart thundering in his chest. He wanted to knock Tommy aside and take Blake from him. Search every inch of him for injuries. Hold him tight until he could feel his chest breathing under him, and his heart thudding against his own ribs.
“Where’s Scott?” Victoria’s voice was like a slap.
Tommy released Blake and looked away, turning his back to Victoria. She looked between him and Phin, then back to Gabriel.
“Oh,” she said.
“He—” Gabriel began, but Victoria held up a hand.
“I understand, Commander.”
Unfortunately, Gabriel believed she did. He knew he should probably say something, but now was not the time. Maybe never, knowing Victoria.
“We need to go,” he said quickly. Whatever was going on, they had to fall back. Regroup. Tend to their wounds. Victoria and Phin couldn’t walk without help, and Phin was still bleeding.
Tommy and Blake got on either side of Victoria while Judd slung Phin’s arm over his shoulder. The big man’s lips were turning white.
Gabriel took point. His gun was empty, and he had no idea if they had any more ammo, but he still held it aloft. It made him feel better as he swept the streets and alleys.
About a kilometer from the fighting, they found what once had been a nice little neighborhood. The stone townhouses were fit together snugly with big cement walk ups and mature trees. Most of the windows had been blown out, and the streetlamps had been ripped up, but they found a decent little basement apartment.
Judd left Phin propped against the black wrought iron fencing and joined Gabriel. Together they took the stairs quietly, easing their boots over the dried leaves strewn across the courtyard. It was empty save for a couple of toppled Adirondack chairs—one was partially melted.
With a nod to Judd, Gabriel carefully reached over and tried the front door. To his surprise, it swung open. Judd covered him as they both adjusted to the gloom of the apartment.
The building was old, probably historical. Someone had clearly renovated it at some point. The apartment was awash in neutral colors, with thick cream carpet. The far wall was exposed brick, and Gabriel guessed it was original.
The rent was probably astronomical.
Stepping into the foyer, he swept his gun across the quiet space. The living room and kitchen were one big room, separated by a small half-wall. A white couch was pushed up against the wall with a glass coffee table. Judd peeled off to check down the hallways. There were two open doors, the bedroom and bathroom, Gabriel guessed. A moment later, Judd returned, gun down, giving the ‘OK’ sign with his fingers.
“There’s no TV,” Judd said after looking around. “What kind of psycho doesn’t have a TV?”
“Wouldn’t work anyway,” Gabriel answered distractedly.There were a few personal photos hung up on the wall and set up on a shelf. He purposefully didn’t look at them.
Judd helped the others in, setting Phin down on the white couch. He grunted, leg sticking straight out. Blake knelt beside him to check Tommy’s work, his face drawn.
Victoria limped over to the kitchen and began sorting through food and water supplies.
With everyone accounted for and not currently in any mortal danger, Gabriel allowed himself a moment. He leaned against the wall, head thunking against the plaster. Eyes closing, he stuffed his hand in his pocket and fingered the well-worn crochet hook.
I won’t be the lone survivor.
Scott’s face was seared into the back of his eyelids like he was still looking down the barrel of his gun.
His heart was thundering in his chest, but now it was building up. Adrenaline pooled in his limbs with no way to vent. It made his fingers twitch. It was the exact kind of anxiety that used to drive him to drink. He’d come home from work to the quiet of his home and slowly begin to lose his mind. The corners of his room would close in on him one moment, only to expand the next and leave him floundering. A small fish in a big ocean. He would turn on the TV and radio. Hell, even the dishwasher. Anything to drown it all out.
It didn’t work. It wasn’t the silence that crippled him. It wasn’t even the voices. It was all of it. Therat-a-tatof his gun, the stink of gunpowder, the soft little exhale someone made when they were shot, staring straight ahead in shock. They would waiver, body lagging for a moment, before they collapsed to the ground in a little huff.