The Alpha Bodyguards Books #4-6

Chapter Eight

T he trigger pull dropped the firing pin onto the primer.

The primer set off the main charge of gunpowder in the shell.

The rapid expansion of gas propelled the bullet.

The shot cut through the crowd.

The gunman’s aim was precise. Military-trained precise.

I grabbed the flannel woman’s shoulders and jerked her toward me. The first bullet ripped through her arm instead of her head and exited through my splayed fingers.

Her chest hit mine, her mouth opened on a scream, and the rushing crowd prevented further escape.

The second bullet hit her back.

Shoving her down, dropping to one knee, I was already reaching for my concealed 9mm. Thirty degree angle, my gun still in my cargo pocket, my finger found its home.

I pulled the trigger.

My first shot hit the gunman with the Sig in the groin.

His mouth opened with pain, his hand went to his shredded flesh and he dropped to his knees.

I angled up fifteen degrees.

The blonde woman in flannel aspirated.

My piece still inside my shorts pocket, I pulled the trigger again.

My shot hit the first gunman in the forehead.

The second gunman managed to fire at me.

He missed.

The blonde in the flannel grabbed my leg as blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. “Help me.”

Women screaming, men yelling, everyone running, chaos everywhere, I pulled my cell out.

With bloody fingers, the blonde grabbed my hand. “No.” She choked. “No 911.”

“You need an ambulance and a hospital or you’ll die.” No exit wound on the second bullet, I was guessing it’d hit an organ.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“No police, no ambulance. I’m dead if they catch me.” She coughed up more blood. “Please.” Her hand tightened. “Get me out of here.”

I wasn’t a hero.

I wasn’t even ethical.

But I was a Marine. An identity I carried better than any name I’d forged or stolen over the years.

“Please,” she begged again, glancing around in a panic as she held her back with her good arm. “The cops are already coming. Everyone saw you shoot at them. They got a good look at you. You’re in trouble now anyway. Please.” Pain etched across her face. “Get me out of here.”

Unregistered and untraceable gun, an ID on me I’d picked up last week, a thousand witnesses, security cameras, it all added up to one thing. Bad odds. Which were even worse in her case.

“Depending on where that bullet is lodged,” I warned, “jostling you could kill you instantly.” I’d seen it happen downrange.

“If we stay, I’m dead anyway. Please ,” she pleaded.

Yanking the flannel shirt off her, I coiled it and tied it around her midsection, covering the second bullet wound. Grabbing my T-shirt from where it hung off my back waistband, I tied it around her arm.

She winced, but didn’t comment.

“Last chance,” I warned. “I could be a bigger risk than whoever’s after you.”

“You’re not,” she panted. “Go.”

I picked her up.

She grunted in pain.

I scanned the venue, calculated distances, and adjusted for my speed with a full combat loadout because she weighed about the same. “Can you stay conscious for eight minutes?”

“Yes,” she ground out. “Maybe. Hurry. This hurts like a fucking bitch.”

I took off at a fast clip, aiming toward the bank of motorcycles.

Cutting through chaos, using our speed to push people out of our way, I counted. Number of sirens. Number of people looking at us. Number of potential rides out of here. Time that we were out of. Sight lines, distances, steps, her breaths.

Eighty-nine seconds later, I set her on a yellow Yamaha sport racer.

“Hold on,” I ordered.

Barely nodding, she grabbed one handlebar with her bad arm.

Pulling out my knife, I cut a section of insulated wire from the bike next to us and stripped the ends. Twisting the wires on each end, I found the ignition cable on the Yamaha. Disconnecting the connector, I shoved my cut piece of wire into the socket, and the bike clicked on. Moving her hand, I started the engine and revved it twice.

“Slide back.” Putting the passenger foot pegs down, I moved her back before throwing my leg over.

Her injured arm slid around my waist, but she didn’t grab onto me with any strength.

I threw up the kickstand and glanced over my shoulder. “Can you hang on or do you need to ride in front of me?” It wasn’t ideal, but I’d manage.

“Just go,” she rasped.

Backing us up, I swung the bike around and took off as three Miami PD cruisers and two ambulances pulled up to the crowd of security around the dead gunman.

Weaving in and out of pedestrians and cars, I headed toward the festival parking lots on the mainland as she started to pass out.