CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX LANA #2
"Hands where we can see them!" The officer's voice is authoritative, weapon trained on Jax who's still positioned between me and everyone else despite having just dropped the bloody knife.
"Private security!" Brandon calls out, his hands still raised. "Blackwood Security - licensed contractors! We were attacked! Our client was the target!"
More officers are flooding in now, assessing the scene—Reese's body in a pool of blood, Derek slumped against the vehicle with his arm bleeding, bullet holes in concrete, our destroyed vehicle with deployed airbags. The evidence of violence is overwhelming, impossible to miss.
An officer approaches Jax, weapon still drawn but posture shifting from threat assessment to witness processing. "Sir, I need you to step away from the woman. Keep your hands visible."
"She's my client. She was the target of this attack." Jax's voice is steady despite everything. "I'm not leaving her unprotected when we don't know if additional hostiles are still in this garage."
"We'll protect her. Step away. Now." The officer isn't negotiating.
Jax complies, moving two steps to the side but keeping his eyes on me, silently communicating that he's still here, still watching, still between me and anything that might materialize from the shadows.
Another officer crouches beside Reese's body, checks for pulse even though it's obvious he's gone. "This one's deceased. Single assailant?"
"Three total," Brandon reports, still maintaining his position with hands raised. "Two fled when police – you guys arrived."
A female officer approaches me, her weapon holstered now, her expression shifting to concern when she sees my face. "Ma'am, are you injured? Do you need medical attention?"
I shake my head, can't form words yet, still trapped between the memory of Gabriel falling and the reality of Reese dying three feet from me. The officer is saying something about shock, about paramedics, but her voice sounds distant like I'm underwater.
"Ma'am, I need you to look at me. Can you tell me your name?"
"Lana." The word comes out cracked. "Lana Pope."
Recognition flashes across her face—she knows the name, probably from news coverage of Gabriel's death or the foundation work or just being a wealthy widow in a city where wealthy widows get noticed. "Okay, Lana. I'm Officer Martinez. Can you tell me what happened here?"
What happened? Where do I even start? With the meeting that was supposed to end everything? With Victor Reese watching us from the shadows? With the first gunshot that turned our exit into an ambush?
Or do I start six months ago on a terrace during a storm when I watched my husband fall and felt relief mixed with horror?
"We were leaving," I manage to say, forcing myself to focus on today rather than six months ago.
"After a meeting. Settlement with my late husband's brother.
We were leaving and someone started shooting.
Our driver was hit. The car crashed. Then that man—" I gesture toward Reese's body.
"He came directly at me. With a gun. He was going to kill me. "
"And the man who was protecting you?" Martinez glances at Jax who's being questioned by another officer twenty feet away. "He engaged the attacker?"
"He saved my life. That man was going to shoot me. Jax stopped him." The words feel inadequate for what actually happened—the violence, the knife, the terrible efficiency of watching someone die, so I can stay alive.
Martinez is writing everything down, her questions methodical and professional. How many attackers did I see? Did any of them speak? Did I recognize them? Can I describe their appearance?
I answer on autopilot, providing details while my brain is still processing that the memory came back, that I finally know what happened that night with Gabriel, that I have to live with the knowledge that I tried to save him but couldn't and part of me was relieved when I failed.
Paramedics arrive, immediately attending to Derek whose arm is still bleeding badly.
They're talking about arterial damage, about getting him to the hospital, about how he's lucky the shot didn't hit anything immediately fatal.
Derek is conscious, trying to insist he's fine, that he needs to stay and provide security for me.
"Sir, you're going to the hospital," one of the paramedics says firmly. "Your client has six police officers protecting her right now. She's safe."
Another paramedic approaches me with a blood pressure cuff and concerned expression. "Ma'am, I need to check you out. Make sure you weren't injured in the crash or the shooting."
I submit to the examination, letting them check my vitals and look for wounds I don't have. Physically I'm fine. Mentally I'm fragmenting, the memory of Gabriel's death playing on loop underneath everything else happening around me.
His eyes going wide with terror. My hands slipping. Relief underneath horror.
"She's in shock," the paramedic reports to Officer Martinez. "Blood pressure elevated, pupils dilated, dissociative presentation. She should go to the hospital for evaluation."
"No." The word comes out harder than I intend. "I'm not going to the hospital. I just want to go home."
"Ma'am, you've just survived a targeted attack. You witnessed a violent death. Shock can present in delayed ways—"
"I'm not going to the hospital." I'm looking at Jax now, needing him to understand that I can't handle sterile rooms and fluorescent lights and doctors asking me how I'm feeling when I don't even know where to start processing any of this. "Please. Just let me go home."
Martinez exchanges glances with the paramedic, clearly weighing medical necessity against my refusal.
"If you refuse transport to the hospital, we'll need you to sign a refusal form—RMA.
Against medical advice. And you'll need to stay available for follow-up questioning once we've processed the scene and reviewed security footage. "
"I'll stay available. I'll sign whatever you need. Just please let me leave." I'm begging now, don't even care how it sounds. "I can't stay here. I can't keep looking at—" I gesture toward Reese's body that's being photographed by crime scene investigators. "Please."
Jax has finished his statement with the other officer and is approaching now, still maintaining distance because police told him to but close enough that I can feel his presence.
"Officer Martinez, my client has been through significant trauma today.
She'll cooperate fully with your investigation, but she needs to be somewhere secure, somewhere that isn't an active crime scene. "
Martinez considers this, clearly calculating whether letting me leave creates complications for her investigation.
"The building security footage should corroborate your statements.
And we have multiple witnesses including two licensed security contractors.
" She turns to me. "You can go. But I need contact information and commitment that you'll be available when we need additional statements. "
I provide the burner phone number, the safe house address, everything she needs to track me down. She has me sign forms declining medical transport, confirming I understand I'm leaving against medical advice, acknowledging I'll make myself available for further investigation.
Then finally, mercifully, she steps back. "You're free to go. But Ms. Pope? Judging by what we’ve gathered so far, this wasn't random. Until we apprehend the other attackers, you need to maintain security protocols."
"She will," Jax says, already moving toward me now that he has permission. "Brandon, can Andre drive us back? And please get Derek to the hospital?"
Brandon's professional calm is intact despite everything. "Andre's vehicle took some rounds but nothing critical. Engine's good, tires are intact. I'll ride with Derek to the hospital, make sure he's taken care of. Andre, get them to the safe house now."
Andre brings his vehicle alongside us—I can see bullet impacts on the passenger side panels, spider-webbed window, but it's moving fine.
Jax opens the rear door, helps me inside with careful hands that are still covered in Reese's blood.
He slides in beside me, finally close enough to touch after being forced to maintain distance by police protocols.
"I'm sorry," he says as Andre starts driving toward the exit ramp we never made it to. "I'm sorry you had to see that. Had to witness—"
"You saved my life." I cut him off because his apology makes no sense. "Reese was going to kill me. You stopped him. That's what happened."
"I know. But killing someone in front of you, making you watch that violence—" He stops, struggling with words that don't come easily.
"Lana, you didn't sign up for any of this.
You just wanted to settle your late husband's estate and move on with your life.
Instead you're watching people die in parking garages. "
I want to respond, but the words won't form properly. My brain is still caught between present violence and past trauma.
People die in parking garages. People fall from terraces during storms. People leave your life through violence you can't control, and you're left with the memory of trying to save them and failing and feeling relief underneath the guilt.
"I remember," I hear myself say, voice cracked and distant. "When he died. When I watched Reese die. Something—the memory came back. From that night. With Gabriel."
"The night he died."
"Yes." That's all I can manage right now. Yes, I remember. Yes, it came flooding back. Yes, everything I've been blocking for six months is suddenly sharp and present and I don't know what to do with it.
"Can you tell me what you remember?" His voice is careful, gentle in ways that suggest he understands trauma memories don't come back easily.