Split Second - Catherine Coulter [86]
Then Sherlock saw Dillon’s legs. Thank God, he’d finally gotten through. She wanted to call out to him, but he was weaving now, his legs blurring with a dozen other legs as she gulped down the sickness. Billy was screaming, it hurt her ears it was so loud, and he was yanking on her hair, and she heard Kirsten groan. Billy let go of her hair and hit her shoulder hard. She thought she heard Dillon growl, like an animal ready to attack its prey, and that prey would be Billy.
“Dillon.” Had she said his name aloud? She wasn’t sure. Kirsten was grabbing her and shoving her off. No, she couldn’t let her go, she couldn’t. She heard Billy cursing, yelling, heard Dillon, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. There was only noise.
Was that Mrs. Spicer yelling that the redhead was FBI and Billy was an idiot?
She was closing down fast. She heard Kirsten yell out Bruce Comafield’s name. Was he here? She heard running, and then gunshots, lots of them, and they sounded like cannons firing in her face. She heard Comafield yell, “Run, Kirsten! Run!”
Sherlock tried to grab her, she really did, but it was a pathetic effort. Kirsten kicked her in the ribs, and when Sherlock grabbed her leg, Kirsten turned and slammed her other foot into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock fell back onto the sidewalk. She saw bursts of white flare madly, then the dim streetlight was suddenly bright and looming, weaving around her, and all the people were shadows now, blurring into one another.
She heard running, screaming, more gunfire. Who was firing? Everyone, she thought. Everyone, and Comafield. Kirsten? Did she have a gun, too?
She tried to yell for Dillon to stop Kirsten, but nothing came out of her mouth. She rolled over, managed to come up onto her knees, and began to vomit.
Through the awful heaving, she heard Mrs. Spicer yelling at her husband.
There was gunfire still. She knew it was Comafield; he was firing to provide cover for Kirsten, that was it. Was he shooting at Dillon? Of course he was; he was shooting at everyone.
CHAPTER 43
Legs, all Sherlock could see were legs, a dozen or a hundred. She heard two people close to her yell and saw them fall. She heard Ollie shouting for people to get into the bar, and she saw his legs now, and he was shoving people, trying to get them to move.
She heard Lucy shouting at Comafield after a lull in the shooting. Was he out of bullets? She heard him curse, heard metal garbage cans clanking.
Another gunshot, a sharp, loud staccato. Was it Lucy, had she hit Comafield?
She was shutting down. Was she dying? She heard Coop shout, heard Lucy say something, then she heard more gunfire.
She smelled Dillon, and she smiled as she felt him kneel next to her, pulling her up against him, his hands on the pulse at her throat. “It’ll be all right; it’s over now, sweetheart; hang in there. The ambulance is on the way.” He said it over and over, and she tried to smile up at him, tried to tell him she loved him, but the world was swimming away from her. “Dillon,” she whispered, and then she was out.
Savich felt her pulse again. He lifted her away from the mess, and rose. He saw Lucy bent over Billy, pressing her hands down hard against the bullet wound in his shoulder. Ollie and Dane were seeing to the wounded civilians, and Ruth and Jack were still herding people back into the bar, trying to get everyone to calm down.
He couldn’t believe it. What a debacle.
Bruce Comafield had two bullets in him. He saw Coop go down on his knees and apply pressure to his belly wound.
And Kirsten? Savich knew in his gut Kirsten was long gone.
He lightly shook Sherlock, but she didn’t stir. He was so afraid he was ready to run to the nearest hospital himself. He saw people were beginning to come out of the bar again to see what was going on, but he didn’t care enough to tell them to back off.
He heard Mrs. Spicer say with satisfaction, “You got the little pisser. And now look, he’s shot. What happened to the girl, to Bundy’s daughter?”
Savich began to rock Sherlock. Where were the ambulances?