Page 35 of A Burning Rage

The woman on the phone assures us a squad is on their way.

“Hang in there, buddy,” Tyler says. “Help is on the way.”

My husband.

My best friend.

The man who threw himself between me and a madman with a gun—the man who sacrificed himself to save me—is bleeding profusely.

I stroke his hair as hot tears stream down my face. “Stay with me, Shane! Please—” My voice breaks, closing up on me.

My entire world narrows down to the man whose head is in my lap. I stroke his hair with blood-stained fingers.

A red-haired woman wearing medical scrubs walks out of the hospital elevator, sees us, and rushes over. “I’m a nurse,” she says as she drops to her knees and begins assessing Shane, checks his breathing, his pulse. She frowns when she sees the amount of blood pooling beneath him.

“You called 911?” the nurse asks.

“Yes, the squad’s coming,” Tyler tells her.

I stare down at my bloody hands. Even though I’m holding my sweater tightly to the wound, blood continues to seep out. The fluorescent lights in the parking garage make him look a sickly shade of pale green.

My chest is hallowed out and cold. “Please Shane,” I whisper. My throat is so tight, I can barely speak. “You can’t leave me.”

When Tyler spares me a glance and notices all the blood on me, he pales. “Are you—you’re not—”

I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s not my blood.”

We hear the sirens then, just as the 911 operator tells me the squad has arrived. Our first indication that they’re close are the lights flashing in the garage like strobe lights. Now that they’re inside the garage, they shut off the sirens.

Two medical squads pull up to the scene, along with two police cruisers. Police officers exit their vehicles and begin securing the scene. Tyler fills them in on what happened.

“Over here!” a female bystander yells as she waves wildly at the responders.

I realize a small crowd has gathered around us at a respectful distance.

Two emergency medical technicians, one holding a black medical bag, rush over to Shane. Tyler and the nurse step back to let the paramedics work.

I hear a woman sobbing and quickly realize it’s Cynthia Morton. She and her husband are crouched over their son’s lifeless body, both of them looking stunned and horrified.

Tyler helps me stand and move back so the medical professionals can do their work. They assess the wound—a single gunshot near the center of his torso.

The other one cuts Shane’s T-shirt off so they can wrap his abdomen with bandages.

Someone brings a gurney over, and I watch helplessly as they load Shane onto it and strap him down.

Blood is already starting to seep into the bandage.

He’s losing so much blood.

My legs are shaking so badly I think the only reason I’m still standing is because my brother is holding me up.

“I’m going with him,” I say as I try to follow the gurney to the ambulance.

“No,” Tyler says, holding me back. “I’ll drive you. You can barely stand on your own power.”

The ambulance has already departed by the time Tyler opens his front passenger door and helps me in. I collapse numbly into the front passenger seat.

“Where are they taking him?” I ask as he buckles my seat belt.