Chapter 36
Daisy
The coldness of Thompson’s eyes terrifies–it’s the stuff of horror flicks. It’s like he isn’t there, like his soul left his body.
“Please don’t,” but the words are useless, and I know it.
On the ground, Jake’s fingers twitch.
He’s alive.
Unconscious, but alive.
Buy time.
“Was this your plan all along?”
“I’m not stupid,” he snaps. “Bullet wounds require investigation.”
The blood splatter coating my clothes contradicts Thompson, but I won’t argue with a gun-wielding psychopath.
“What’d you do to Jake? Did you shoot him?”
“Nah. Took a taser to him. Never owned a taser before, but then I discovered Jake’s little heart condition. Figured it might be a handy thing to have. Although tonight’s not exactly going to plan. Bastard didn’t go all the way down with a taser. Had to knock him out. Hard fucking head.”
“Why?”
“Someone couldn’t leave well enough alone. Caused a shitstorm.”
“Me?” I put on my softest look, one that I hope reminds Thompson of the brownies I baked. “I’m sorry.”
I’m absolutely not sorry, but I’m light on experience on what to say when a gun’s pointed at your head.
“It’s not your fault, Daze.” He draws out my shortened name the way Jake does, but the gravel in Thompson’s voice feels like a spider crawling on my skin.
“Phillip shouldn’t have asked you here. That’s the fuck up.
But his question was a good one, and there are people who need to know.
Did he get it right? Are you the one who tampered with the presentation? ”
He wants to know if someone else is out there, if he needs to hunt another victim. He suspects, but he wants confirmation.
“If there’s someone else out there, would you kill them with poison or a bullet?”
“If you were listening, Daze, I just told you. The name of the game is to not get caught.”
“How long have you been playing this game?”
Jake’s in the shadows; I can’t see his face, but his hand is moving.
I look away, locking eyes with Thompson, needing to keep his attention. If he sees Jake waking, he might kill him.
And there’s another person with us — I heard footsteps.
“What are you waiting on?” A man steps forward. He’s a stranger; someone I’ve never seen. Unlike Thompson, his goggles cover his eyes instead of dangling from his neck, which means he can probably see Jake clearly.
“Who are you?”
My voice comes out shrill.
I need his eyes on me.
Not Jake. Me.
A loud, ear-splitting sound rips through the air.
Thompson drops forward.
With a second crack, the stranger stumbles back. I dive for the wall before I can think.
No — I need to cover Jake.
But Jake’s holding a gun.
He’s on the ground.
He shot off two rounds while lying on his back.
The stranger’s on the ground, but he’s moving.
I blink, and open my mouth, “J-J-J…”
My God, what is wrong with me? I don’t stutter. It’s like my brain can’t process — the taser, the gunshots, Jake shooting from the ground — everything moved so fast my nervous system is trying to catch up. A sharp pain stabs my chest and I clutch at my sternum.
“Breathe,” Jake wheezes. He grimaces, curling in on his side.
I suck in air. Try again.
“Jake,” I finally get out.
“Call 911. My chest. Hurts like a fucker.”
My fingers tremble as they press against Jake’s chest, searching for the wound.
“Phone. Call.” I force myself up, fighting dizziness, and fumble for my phone in my back pocket. “First,” he grits out. “Grab his gun.”
“Is it your heart?” I ask, worried far more about Jake than the stranger on the ground.
The man groans; his gun moves; I freeze.
A bright light flashes, and a second ear-splitting crack rings out.
Jake’s head lolls back and he heaves.
“Call. For. Help.”
Right. Right.
Jake just shot the man — again — from the ground.
My legs go weak. Kneeling, I dial 911.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“Shots fired,” I say, my voice shaking. “At the private hangar on Route 47, near the data center. Multiple people shot. I need an ambulance.”
“Ma’am, are you safe? Are the shooters still there?”
I glance down at Thompson and the other man — both motionless. Jake’s gun is still in his hand, but his breathing is ragged. “The shooters are down. But the man who stopped them — he’s hurt. He has a heart condition and was tased. He’s conscious, but his chest hurts.”
“Is he breathing?”
“Yes, but—” Jake’s eyes roll back, and he goes limp. “Oh god, he just lost consciousness!”
“Ma’am, I need you to check his pulse. Can you do that?”
I press my fingers to his neck like in the movies. “I feel it, but it’s really fast and then it stops and then it’s fast again.”
“That’s important information. EMS is en route; they should be there in four minutes. Is anyone else injured?”
I look toward the Jeep’s headlights. “Yes — one man shot in the head. He’s…” I swallow hard. “He’s dead.”
“Okay, I need you to stay on the line until help arrives. Don’t touch anything except to help the injured man. What’s your name?”
“Daisy Jonas. The injured man is Jake Ryder. He’s former military.”
“Daisy, you’re doing great. Can you tell me what happened?”
I give her a quick rundown while kneeling beside Jake, one hand on his chest to monitor his breathing. The dispatcher keeps me talking, asking about weapons, about whether I feel safe, about Jake’s condition. Her calm voice anchors me when my hands start shaking again. In the distance, sirens wail.
“I can hear the sirens,” I tell her.
“Good. They’ll be there any moment. Stay on the line until they reach you.”
Jake stirs slightly, mumbling something I can’t make out. Relief floods through me.
“He’s moving again,” I report.
“That’s a good sign. Here they come.”
Red and blue lights wash over the hangar. A police officer exits his car, gun drawn.
“Over here!” I shout.
The officer kneels by Phillip, then heads toward me. “We need a medic.”
An ambulance screeches to a halt outside the hangar. Two paramedics leap out, their equipment bags thumping against their sides.
“Ma’am, we need you to step back,” the first paramedic says — a woman with gray-streaked hair in a tight bun. Her partner, a younger man, is already kneeling beside Jake.
“Chest pain,” I say, my voice cracking. “He was conscious. But he fainted again. Head wound,” I say, fingering his matted hair. “He was hit by a hard object…I think.” It can’t be a bullet wound. “And tased.”
The male paramedic runs his hands along Jake’s chest. “No visible GSW.” He pulls out a stethoscope. “Heart rate’s all over the place.”
“Does he have any medical conditions?” the woman asks, attaching leads for an EKG.
“He has Long QT syndrome,” I blurt, remembering Jake’s explanation for leaving the Navy. “He takes medication. And he was tased.”
The paramedics exchange a hard look. The woman studies the EKG. “Edge of Torsades. We need to move now.”
“What does that mean?” My voice cracks.
“His rhythm is dangerously irregular,” she says, while her partner prepares an IV. “With Long QT, extreme stress or exertion can trigger a fatal arrhythmia. Has he been taking his meds?”
I try to remember the past week. “I… I don’t know. Maybe. I guess so.” Please, Jake. Please tell us you’ve been taking them.
Jake’s eyelids flutter, and he groans softly.
“Jake!” I reach for his hand, but the paramedic gently stops me.
“Sir, can you hear me?” The male paramedic shines a penlight in Jake’s eyes. “You’re okay. The taser may have triggered a syncopal episode—you fainted. We’re taking you to the hospital.”
“Daisy?” Jake’s voice is thin and confused as his eyes find mine. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. You saved me.” Tears blur my vision. “You stupid idiot.”
I want to drill him over his meds, but his face contorts with pain, his hand going to his chest. “Feels like...elephant sitting…”
“Don’t try to talk,” the female paramedic says, fitting an oxygen mask. “Your heart’s working overtime. We’re giving magnesium through the IV to help stabilize your rhythm.”
They lift him onto the gurney with practiced efficiency. Jake reaches for me, and I grab his hand, squeezing tight.
“I’m coming,” I tell the paramedics. It’s not a question.
The woman nods. “You can ride up front. We need room to work.”
As they load Jake into the ambulance, police cars arrive, their officers spilling out to secure the scene. One approaches me, but the female paramedic waves him off.
“She’s coming with us. You can get her statement at the hospital. The others here are DOA.”
I climb into the ambulance, watching through the small rear window as they work. The monitor flashes irregular peaks that make my stomach drop.
“How long has he had Long QT?” the driver asks as we pull away, sirens screaming.
“Recently diagnosed. That’s why he left the military,” I say, my voice catching. “He should’ve never been here.”
“These military types,” she says with a knowing shake. “They think they’re invincible. Long QT doesn’t care. One bad rhythm and—” She doesn’t finish.
Through the window, back in the patient area, a paramedic adjusts Jake’s IV. His chest rises and falls. “Is he going to be okay?” I ask, gripping the armrest until my knuckles blanch.
“His rhythm’s stabilizing with the magnesium. That’s a good sign. But he’ll need a full cardiac workup. Maybe an ICD."
“What’s that?”
“An implantable cardioverter-defibrillator — like a pacemaker that can shock the heart back into rhythm if it goes haywire.”
I think of Jake’s stubbornness, his refusal to be seen as weak. He’s going to hate it.
The hospital comes into view, the emergency entrance a bright beacon. A cardiac team waits — the paramedics must have called ahead.
“You’ll have to wait in the family area,” the driver tells me gently. “They’ll take good care of him.”
As they wheel Jake away, he turns his head, searching…for me. Even with the oxygen mask, I can see him trying to mouth the words: “Love you.”
“Love you too,” I whisper back, even though he’s already disappearing through the double doors.
I stand alone under the harsh fluorescent lights, bloodstained and trembling as adrenaline crashes. A nurse approaches with a blanket and a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says. “And you can tell us more about his condition. Every detail helps.”
I nod, following her, but I’ve told her everything I know.
He made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal or something to worry about.
The big foolish oaf. Of course, he’s my idiotic oaf.
Or I’m the idiot. I’m the one who insisted on coming here.
On meeting Phillip. All to get answers I don’t need.
And now… Jesus, Jake. He literally put his life on the line to save me because he’s got no sense of self-preservation and a heart the size of Texas—and that big, beautiful heart might be the very thing that takes him away.