I held up my hands like I was surrendering and dropped down, lying on my belly. From this vantage point, I looked at the gun beside the security guard. It was across the room, but if I could get to it, I might be able to take several of these assholes out before they figured out who was shooting.
“Anyone calls the cops and I will shoot to kill,” one of the men said in a calm, collected voice.
The tellers didn’t keep money in cash drawers in this bank. The machines beside the patrons counted out the money and delivered it almost like an ATM. I watched as one of the guys tucked away his gun and palmed a sledgehammer.
With one powerful swing, he bashed in the first machine, reaching in his arm and pulling out fistfuls of cash.
Behind the counter, I could hear the men ordering someone to open the safe, and I prayed it wasn’t Taylor. The girl started crying and I knew instantly it wasn’t her. I knew on instinct that Taylor wasn’t the type to lose her shit in bad situations. I might not know her, but I knew how to read people and I was never wrong.
I began to inch forward, keeping my eyes trained on the man guarding the door with his gun. The other three were behind the counter, and I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about them seeing me until I was already halfway to the gun.
I blocked out all the sounds in the room; I focused on the gun, on what I had to do to get there. Once the familiar feel of that weapon was in my hand, all bets were off, and I was shooting to kill.
I managed to keep my concentration. Until I heard Taylor’s voice. It’s funny how something I heard so little of, something I was just introduced to, could become so innately ingrained inside me. I would know her voice anywhere. It was so familiar it was almost like my own.
“Last time I checked, robbing a bank and holding a gun on a person was a crime,” she said.
I shut my eyes, wishing she had kept her mouth shut. Why hadn’t she gone off and crawled in a cabinet or something?
The sound of skin hitting skin set my nerves on fire. It was almost as if I stepped in a pile of red ants and they swarmed my bare skin, racing up my legs and biting into me with every chance they got. Ripples of burning pain skittered over my skin, and I ground my teeth together.
“Hey,” I called, abandoning my progress toward the gun and pushing up off the ground. I knew it might get me shot, but I’d rather take a bullet than watch her get knocked around again. “I thought you were here for the money and not to hit women.”
She glanced my way with fear in her eyes, and I felt the side of my jaw tick when I saw how welted her cheek already was.
The man who inflicted those welts aimed his gun at me. It crossed my mind to dare him to shoot me. It wouldn’t be the first time I took a bullet, and I could use the chaos of being shot to my advantage to get the unmanned gun.
Instead, he turned his attention back to Taylor and shoved her toward the safe.
When she didn’t do what he wanted immediately, he rammed her into the unforgiving metal door and she fell back on her ass. I leaped over the counter. To hell with watching a woman get beat up.
I was guilty of a lot of things in my life, but I didn’t hit women.
One of the douches trying to rob the place appeared beside me and rammed the nozzle of his gun between my shoulder blades. “Take another step and I’ll shoot you.”
I thought about calling his bluff.
Instead, I held up my hands like I was surrendering and watched the scene play out. It was a mistake that would likely haunt me for years.
I saw the look in the robber’s eyes when he decided to shoot her. I saw the momentary thrill that being in power gave him. I moved fast, spinning instantly and disarming the guy who thought he was holding me hostage.
I hit him in the head with the butt of the gun and dropped him, turning back to Taylor.
But just as I turned, a gun went off.
2
Taylor
I never really gave much thought to what it would be like to get shot. It’s probably good I never wasted my time thinking about it because I never would have imagined it would be like this.
I literally felt the bullet rip into my body. I felt the heat of the metal, and the impact of the shot spurred me backward. I lost my balance and fell. I didn’t even notice my body colliding hard against the floor.
White-hot pain burned through me, eclipsing all else. I didn’t think. I couldn’t even react. It was almost like I was paralyzed for long moments. The pain began to ebb away, and I stared up at the bright lights in the ceiling as numbness overtook my body.
I knew I should be hurting more, but I couldn’t seem to summon up the amount of worry that I needed to lift my head and look.
A flurry of movement surrounded me, and the guy whose name I couldn’t remember appeared over me, clutching a gun and assessing me with a tight mouth.
One of the thieves pressed a gun to his head and his eyes narrowed.
“No,” I gasped, the motion hurting me, and I moaned.
“Give me the gun or I’ll shoot her again,” the thief told him.
I watched him debate for a long moment, and I wondered what the hell made him hesitate. But then his eyes slid back to mine. His stare reminded me of freshly brewed espresso, dark and intense. The kind of eyes that could stare right through a person.
He put the gun down and shoved it away from us.
Part of me was disappointed, but the other part of me was charmed he would do something like that in an effort to help me.
The gun held against his head was removed and the men stealing the money started moving around a bit more. I didn’t pay attention to them though because his dark, intense stare leaned closer.
“Stay with me, Taylor,” he said, reaching out and wrapping a hand around my upper arm. It hurt and I cried out.
“You were shot. I’m applying pressure to the large artery running inside your arm below your armpit in an attempt to slow the bleeding.” He spoke calmly, like I wasn’t bleeding all over the place.
“Do you feel pain anywhere else besides your arm?” he asked.
“Is that where I was shot? My arm?”
He glanced at me. “Yes, your upper arm. I don’t think it hit an artery because the pressure I’m applying is slowing the blood flow.”
“It hurts,” I told him.
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, letting go of me. Pain began to throb and I felt my arms and legs begin to shake. I watched as he stripped off the flannel shirt he was wearing and draped it over my torso. It was warm and I sighed because the heat was so welcome.
“What’s your name?” I asked, needing to know the name of the man who was trying to help me.