Chapter 7 - THE BULLET AND THE BADGE
The impact felt like being struck between the shoulder blades with a red-hot sledgehammer.
The 9mm round punched through Preston’s heavy canvas jacket, tearing through the muscle beneath his left scapula, knocking the breath from his lungs in a violent spray of blood. He collapsed across Tara’s lap, his hands clawing into the wool blanket, his vision flashing white, then gray, then tunneling into blackness.
"Preston!"
For the first time in three days, Tara’s voice broke its cold, detached composure. It was a scream of genuine shock.
Gunfire erupted across the warehouse in a deafening, continuous roar.
Wyatt Cole didn't hesitate. The rookie fired three successive rounds from his 12-gauge shotgun into the engine block of the lead Escalade, detonating the battery and showering Sterling’s men in sparks, acid, and shrapnel. Dr. Morrison pressed the button on his remote—not a bomb detonator, but a high-frequency trigger that tripped the warehouse’s automated industrial deluge system.
Ten thousand gallons of pressurized water erupted from the ceiling rafters, crashing down like a monsoon, blinding the gunmen and flooding the floor in seconds.
"Move! Move the chair!" Wyatt yelled, racking another shell into the chamber and firing into the tire of the second SUV, pinning the remaining shooters behind their own doors.
Preston tried to stand, but his legs felt like liquid lead. Blood was pooling beneath him, staining Tara’s bandages crimson. He looked up into her face, the deluge water washing over both of them, plastering her hair against her scarred cheeks.
"I told you..." Preston wheezed, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. "I told you... I wouldn't let the fire touch you..."
"You idiot," Tara choked out, her hands—still raw and blistered—pressing down desperately against the bleeding hole in his back. "You absolute idiot. Why did you do that?"
"Because..." Preston coughed, pain tearing through his ribs, "you were right. I was... the wrong man. But I won't... let him take you."
Across the flooded concrete floor, through the torrential curtain of the deluge system, Chief Raymond Sterling was scrambling toward the exit. Khloe had already slipped out into the fog, sprinting toward the access road like a terrified scavenger leaving a carcass behind.
Sterling raised his pistol, aiming directly at Dr. Morrison, who was struggling to push Tara’s wheelchair toward the safety of the reinforced loading dock.
"Die, you old bastard!" Sterling screamed.
Preston didn't feel the pain anymore. Adrenaline, cold and pure, surged through his dying veins. He rolled off the wheelchair onto the slick concrete, drew his Glock 22 from his waistband with his right hand, and leveled the sights through the falling sheets of water.
Breathe in. Squeeze.
Three shots cracked in rapid succession.
The first round shattered Sterling’s right knee, dropping the battalion chief to the concrete with a howl of agony. The second round struck his gun hand, sending his pistol spinning into the flooded darkness. The third round punched directly through the silver captain’s badge pinned to the lapel of Sterling’s bespoke suit, pinning the twisted metal against his collarbone.
Sterling collapsed into the ankle-deep water, thrashing, screaming, clutching his shattered leg as the deluge beat down upon him.
From outside the warehouse, the night exploded into a kaleidoscope of screaming sirens, blinding red and blue strobes, and the heavy, rhythmic thumping of a Texas Department of Public Safety tactical helicopter.
Searchlights cut through the shattered skylights above.
"Bexar County Sheriff’s Tactical Unit! Put down your weapons! Down on the ground!"
Dozens of state troopers and sheriff’s deputies poured through the loading bay doors, assault rifles raised, swarming the remaining gunmen.
Wyatt immediately dropped his shotgun, raising his hands, while Dr. Morrison stepped forward, holding up his identification and shouting orders to the arriving tactical medics.
Preston’s weapon slipped from his numb fingers, splashing into the water beside him.
He lay flat on his back, looking up at the high, rusted girders of the warehouse roof. The water fell across his face, washing away the smell of soot, the smell of grease, the smell of his own failure.
A shadow fell over him.
Tara was on her knees in the water beside him. She had abandoned the wheelchair, crawling across the cold floor despite her burns, her hands locked firmly over the gunshot wound in his shoulder, pressing down with all her weight.
"Stay awake, Preston," she ordered, her voice trembling, but carrying the unmistakable authority of a surgeon fighting for a life. "Look at me! Keep your eyes on me!"
Preston looked at her. Her hazel eyes were wide, wet with tears that weren't caused by smoke.
"The bracelet..." Preston whispered, his vision dimming at the edges. "I got it back. It’s... on the floor... at the apartment..."
"Shut up," Tara cried, fresh tears spilling over her scars. "Don't talk about the damn bracelet. You breathe, Preston. You hear me? You breathe!"
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"I'm done... waiting, Tara..." he murmured, his breath rattling in his chest. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
His eyes rolled back, his head loll-falling to the side, and the darkness finally pulled him under.
