Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I see…
I see her…
She’s in there… Mary…
Sitting at a table by the window.
I’m going in.
I go closer, and I notice men. Wearing masks. And they’re armed.
My heart drops. God, fear. But nothing compared to the urge—a raw, animal urge—to protect the woman I love.
Now I wish I were in my kilt. I’d have my knife—even though it’s ornamental—stuffed in my hose.
Ornamental it may be, but I can still do some damage with it.
Right now, though? I’ve got nothing. Nothing but my muscles and my fists. Which I will use.
Mary… I must get to Mary…
I walk closer, trying to look nonchalant. One of the men is watching out the doorway.
Is the door locked? If there were any way for them to lock it, it most likely would be.
But I can’t tell.
I pull out my phone, call 911.
Thank you for calling 911.
Seriously? Voicemail for 911? Nine fucking one fucking one?
Jesus Christ. I dart my gaze around, looking for a beat cop or anyone else. A constable. Fucking Scotland Yard. I don’t care.
Anyone. Anyone who can help.
No one.
People walk by. Minding their own business. I haven’t been in New York long, but this seems typical.
I walk slowly now, take a look inside the door.
Out of the blue, the man standing guard turns around, and I take my chance. At the door, a small boy comes running across the floor, and then, one of the gunmen notices me.
In slow motion his arm rises, his gun pointed at me.
A shot. The sound rings in my ears, vibrates through my body. A sharp rock—maybe a shard of glass—hits me.
Shrieks. Screams.
And time. Slow motion.
Down. Blood. Searing pain in my shoulder. Then my stomach.
Searing fucking pain.
Is the little boy okay? Mary?
“Ronan!”
Mary’s voice. Except it’s garbled. Coming through water.
Blood. The scent of blood. Iron. Red. Smells fucking red. Smells like veins, guts.
And then…
I love you, Mary…
Everything goes dark.
Chapter Forty-Two
Mary
“Ronan!” I shout. My heart is beating rapidly, and my skin is on fire.
The little boy runs back to his mother.
Two of the men closest to the door make their escape.
God, one of them find a cop. Please!
“Stay away, bitch,” the first man says.
“But… He’s…” I gulp.
“Christ,” another one says. “What did you shoot him for?”
“He came in. Then the little boy…” He throws his hands in the air, waving the gun around. “What the fuck was I supposed to do?”
The second guy looks out the door where a small crowd is forming. “Cops are going be here soon. We need to get the fuck out of here.”
“Come on. Get everything. Let’s fucking go.”
They shove their guns into the back of their pants, covered by their shirts. Then they remove the masks and leave, trying to look nonchalant.
I don’t bother looking at their faces. Someone should, and I hope someone else did. But all I can think about is Ronan.
Ronan, who’s bleeding out on the floor.
I run to him then. “Someone help me. Please.”
No one comes to my aid except the young mother.
The young mother whose only thought has been her children this entire time.
She’s the one who comes.
“No. You make sure your children are okay.”
“They’re fine. Thank you. Thank you for trying to help me.”
“Please, just see to them.” I dart my gaze around. “The rest of you? Why won’t one of you help me?”
Most of them go running out the door.
“He took all our phones.”
“There must be a landline in here.” The young mother turns to the counter. But all of the employees have fled as well.
“I’ll find one,” she says, darting behind the counter.
I look up at her two children sitting at the table, their eyes wide.
“It’s okay. Your mom is a hero.”
I cover Ronan’s stomach wound with my hands, applying pressure, desperately trying to stop the bleeding.
“Don’t you die on me, Ronan. Don’t you fucking die!”
“I found a phone!” the young mother yells.
“Thank God. Call 911, please!”
Two cops enter the shop then, guns drawn. “What’s going on here?”
I don’t look away from Ronan’s pale face. “We were robbed. Three men. They all got away. But I need help here. Please.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve already called it in. An ambulance is on the way.”
An ambulance. In New York traffic. Please, I beg silently. Please save him.
Please save the man I love.
…
I’m drenched in Ronan’s blood by the time the ambulance comes.
Paramedics enter with a stretcher. They say words, hook Ronan up to machines, but it’s all a garbled mess in my brain.
“I need to ride with him,” I finally say.
I’m surprised they allow it. I’m not family, but perhaps they think I am.
Let them think that.
Somehow we get to Mount Sinai, and Ronan is still alive, thank God.
Doctors meet the ambulance, dressed in scrubs.
“Male, thirties, gunshot wound to the shoulder and the abdomen. BP ninety over forty. Pulse weak.”
I run with them as they enter the hospital, Ronan on a stretcher. My heart has been racing this whole time, but I don’t care. I don’t care if it pops right out of my chest. All I care about is Ronan.