Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Zac
It doesn’t register at first—it’s a blur of motion.
His body jerks. Eyes wide. Blade arcing toward Chloe.
No. Not toward her. Into her.
The movement is a reflex. There’s no precision, no intent. Only panic—lashing out like a cornered animal.
And Chloe’s too close.
I shout.
Her name tears out of me, but the chaos swallows it.
The blade cuts the air.
Then—flesh.
A gasp, sharp and stunned.
It’s not a scream. But rather a noise I’ve heard a thousand times in trauma rooms—a body choosing shock over voice.
She stumbles, clutching her shoulder. Blood spills between her fingers in fast streaks.
My vision narrows.
The vest. The knife. Her face.
I move without thinking.
Time collapses. There’s no strategy. No plan.
Just go.
I lunge straight into Alex.
We crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs and breath. We’re not fighting, it’s a scramble. I wedge a knee in, slam my forearm across his throat, but he bucks under me, stronger than I expected.
The knife—
I don’t know where it is. I didn’t see it leave his hand.
God, please let it have slid out of reach.
His elbow slams into my jaw. Bright white pain blooms across my face. I taste blood—my lip, maybe. Or tongue.
Doesn’t matter.
I drive my palm into his chest, pinning him. My other hand claws at the strap of the vest. It’s thick. Duct-taped. There’s the hard edge of a toggle switch beneath the layers. One wrong move, one pulled wire—and it’s all over.
“Don’t,” I hiss. “Don’t move.”
He lashes out again, catching me across the temple. My vision spins. He’s not trained or skilled. But panic makes people powerful.
And he’s drowning.
“You hurt her,” I snarl. “You hurt her.”
“I didn’t mean… She moved—”
My voice is hoarse, raw. I want to hit him. But I don’t. I clamp his arm under my knee, press the vest with one hand, and rest the other over the trigger site. I’m not fighting a killer. I’m fighting an unraveling man.
And Chloe—
God.
Chloe.
I glance over. Her scrubs are soaked. She’s on the ground, one hand compressing her shoulder, blood leaking in thick rivers. Still conscious but barely.
I didn’t get there fast enough.
I didn’t stop him in time.
Alex thrashes beneath me, gasping, clawing, trying to break free. He’s wild and disoriented.
“I didn’t mean to—” he chokes. “I didn’t want to—”
“Then stop.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.”
He bucks again. His arms strain, pulling on the wires across his chest. I slam my hand over the vest’s center, holding everything in place.
“Chloe,” I rasp. “Get out. Now.”
She doesn’t move.
Her face is white, but her eyes are locked on me.
“I’m not leaving you,” she argues, voice frayed but sure.
Goddammit.
She has to move. Now.
“Go,” I bark. “He could still—Go!”
She doesn’t.
Instead, she hauls herself upright and stumbles toward the trolley, bracing herself against it with a death grip. She grabs the trauma shears and throws them to me. “Cut it off.” Her body shakes, but her aim is steady.
She’s not running.
She’s standing with me.
Alex groans beneath my hold.
“Let me up,” he pleads. “Please, I need—”
“You’re done,” I snap.
Then I feel it.
Warmth. Blood seeping into my side.
Is it mine?
A quick mental check. No pain. No wound.
It must be Chloe’s.
Finally, Alex sags, sobbing now, deep, guttural.
Chloe’s leaning hard against the trolley, her face pale as paper, blood running in claret lines down her arm. She’s clutching her shoulder, and I can see it in her posture: she’s seconds from going down.
I want to go to her. I want to pull away from Alex, run to her side, get pressure on the wound, elevate the arm, and keep her awake—
But not yet.
“Don’t move,” I growl, tightening my grip across his chest.
He’s not struggling anymore. He’s quivering.
“She didn’t deserve it,” he whispers, almost to himself.
“I know,” I say. “I know, Alex.”
He shakes his head.
“You need to stay still.”
“I just… wanted it all to stop.”
He didn’t come here to destroy. Only to bleed in a place someone might notice.
I shift, slowly, keeping one hand pressed on the vest and using the other to check the wiring—enough to find the toggle switch and battery casing. The LED light is still blinking, steady and slow.
Not a countdown.
“Alex,” I coax gently. “We need to get this off you.”
He flinches. “No. No, if you touch it—”
He’s curling in on himself now. Shrinking under me, trying to disappear into the floor.
“Alex, listen to me. You don’t have to die today.”
His eyes flick to Chloe. “She’s bleeding.”
“She’s alive,” I tell him.
“Because you tackled me.”
I say nothing. The truth is, I don’t know. Another half-second and the knife might have gone somewhere else—her chest, her neck.
The wound doesn’t look deep, certainly not fatal.
Still, she’s pale. And her breaths come in shallow pulls.
I have to finish this.
“Let me take it off,” I repeat.
He stares at me. “You think I can go on after this?”
“You’re not the only one carrying pain. Carrying grief.”
His face crumples.
And for a terrifying second, I think he’s going to reach for something else.
But he doesn’t.
He exhales deeply.
Then nods.
If he lets me undo the main strap—
If I can keep tension off the trigger—
I might be able to slide it free.
I reach carefully. Unfasten the Velcro with one hand, then use the shears to cut through the duct tape layer by layer, working meticulously.
“Don’t move,” I whisper. “Just relax.”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t want this. I just wanted someone to know how it felt.”
I know.
I know.
I ease the vest up, off one arm, then the other. The wires are still taped to the battery pack. I shift back, carefully moving off Alex, then hold my breath as I lower the whole thing to the floor, laying it like a newborn out of his reach.
And then—
I let go.
No bang. No final flash. Only the sound of Alex sobbing into the floor.
I crawl to Chloe. She’s on her knees, arm limp, blood soaking through her scrubs, smeared across the floor, her hand slick and trembling in her lap.
“Hey,” I whisper, cradling her face in my palms.
Her lips twitch. “Hey, Z.”
I ease her onto the floor. She doesn’t resist.
Her skin is cold. Her heartrate fast.
“I don’t think it’s deep,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
I grab gauze from the nearby trolley and press hard.
She sucks in a sharp breath.
“Shit—”
“Sorry. I’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
“It’s okayyy…” Her eyes flutter.
“Chloe.” I grip her jaw lightly, guiding her gaze back to mine. “Eyes on me.”
She half-laughs. “You’re mad at me.”
“I’m furious.”
“Worth it.”
Her eyelids droop.
“Do not close your eyes.”
“I’m not.” But her voice is slurring now.
The blood’s slowing. I don’t think the knife hit an artery. But it’s enough to knock her out if I don’t get pressure applied and fluids in fast.
“I need to lift your legs,” I warn her. “You’ll feel dizzy for a second.”
She nods once.
I prop her feet up on a bin and keep my hands over the wound. Her blood’s covering me—warm, slick, painting my scrubs in long red smears.
But she’s alive.
That’s the only thing I care about right now.
I glance back toward Alex.
He hasn’t moved.
He’s curled on the floor like a child, the vest lying in the corner like a shed skin. He looks… small.
And that’s when I see it.
Blood.
Not Chloe’s.
His.
Pooling under his shirt.
A single, deep red bloom just under his ribs.
I look around, then spot it. The knife.
Still on the floor.
Still bloody.
When I tackled him—when he flailed, when we fell—he must’ve landed on it. Drove it into himself by accident.
I crawl toward him, half-panicked. I check the wound, trying to assess, but I already know.
The blood’s coming too fast. He’s going into hypovolemic shock.
“Alex—” I grab his wrist, feel for a pulse.
Faint.
Thready.
He looks up at me, his face slack, tears still drying on his cheeks.
“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.
I squeeze his hand.
And then—
He’s gone.
His eyes stay open.
His chest stills.
No dramatic gasp. No final scream.
Just gone.
I sit back, hands slick with his blood. My own pulse thunders in my ears.
And then Chloe coughs quietly behind me.
I snap back.
She’s still here.
Still bleeding.
Still fighting.
“Zac?” she wonders, dazed.
“I’ve got you.” My voice cracks. “I’ve got you, Chloe.”
I lift my head, throat raw. “We’re clear! Need some help in here. Now!”
A swarm of people flood into the room: police, security, and others I don’t recognize. Then I see Olivia, cutting through the crowd. Her eyes widen when she sees us, and she drops to the ground beside me, already pulling gloves on, barking orders.
“Get the vest secured,” I shout to the nearest responder.
They move fast with practiced urgency. I don’t move from Chloe. Not an inch. Someone tries to take over applying pressure on her shoulder, but I wave them off.
I’ve got her,” I snap.
“Zac—”
“I SAID I’ve got her.”
They all back off.
Chloe stirs. “You’re such an ass.”
I laugh, broken and breathless. “I know.”
They lift her to a gurney. Call out vitals and start fluids.
“Give her to me,” Olivia instructs.
If it were anyone else, I’d refuse. But it’s Olivia. So I let go. Only because she’s in good hands.
I turn and look at Alex.
He remains still.
I lower myself to the floor, kneel in the blood.
His.
Hers.
Mine, maybe. I can’t even tell anymore.
But I don’t get up. I can’t. Not until I’ve stopped shaking. Because this was never a hostage situation.
It was two people with broken hearts, trying not to detonate.
And only one of us made it out.