27. Maeve
Chapter 27
Maeve
I wake suddenly, with a jolt.
It’s hard to tell what time it is, but I think it’s so late it’s becoming early. Callum’s not beside me. Did he ever even come to bed?
My head pounds viciously, probably from all that vodka. Stupid. You don’t even like vodka . I reach for the glass of water beside my bed only to realize that there isn’t one. I must’ve been too out of it earlier to grab one before going to sleep. Groaning, I peel myself off the bed and check my bathroom for Tylenol. A glance in the mirror as I search for what I need from the medicine cabinet tells me I look how I feel: like crap. And there’s no Tylenol.
I’m halfway down the hall when a loud crack halts me in my tracks. My heart seizes, and hot-cold tingles of fear prickle through my entire body. The sound, a gunshot, came from the living room, I think. I stand frozen for what feels like a small eternity before tiptoeing to the mouth of the hallway and peeking out.
Across the room and down the three steps leading into the sunken living room, Mac is asleep on the floor. The television’s still on, but muted. It’s freezing, and as I venture out farther, I realize two things: the front door is wide open and Mac isn’t sleeping.
He’s dead .
My throat closes. Terror shoots up my spine, wringing my stomach out, killing my heart. I back into the hallway and turn and run, returning to the relative safety of the bedroom. I’m shaking so hard I can barely pick up my phone, and even then, I’m having a hard time dialing. Maybe it’s for the best. I can’t call 911, can I? I have to .
Jaime appears, and I nearly scream, panic stealing my rationale.
He rushes to me, his face hardened by focus and purpose. “Put on your shoes. We have to go.”
“What—I thought—is this …?” I can’t formulate a proper thought, let alone express one.
Jaime shoves my coat at me. “I don’t know what this is. We have to go. Now. ”
I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers and pull the coat over my pajamas.
Two gunshots ring out and glass shatters. There’s an agonized scream, and then we hear Callum cursing at someone. I’m simultaneously relieved he’s not dead and terrified that he’s so close by. Jaime grabs my arm and pulls me out of the bedroom, only to shove me back into it when the sounds of a scuffle start up.
“That's right, motherfucker.” Callum laughs— laughs— and then he’s right in front of us, a gun in his hand.
I flatten against the wall as he passes. “What’s happening?” I cry, trying to ignore the blood splatter on his shirt, the grotesque black eye.
“Not now, Maeve. The fuck.” He reaches beneath the bed and starts tearing it apart, looking for something.
I glance at Jaime, but his eyes are trained on Callum, who eventually looks up and sees him.
“What are you doing, man?” he asks.
“Heard shots, so I came to make sure you were okay,” Jaime says.
“Not okay, but not dead either.” Callum’s pupils are dilated, eyes wild.“Anyway, it took you long enough. I need you to follow me?—”
“I think we should secure Maeve first.”
“You can’t take her outside,” Callum says, finally pulling another gun from beneath the bed. “They could still be out there.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he chants, shoving bullets into the chamber of his gun .
“I don’t think she’s safe here," Jaime says evenly, and I wonder what he knows. He must’ve been outside just now too, right?
“Hide in the closet, Maeve. Just be quiet and chill,” Callum says, and now his voice is wobbling. “Either of you see Griff?”
Jaime shakes his head.
“Gotta find him. And I have to … did you see Mac?” Angry tears streak his face. “They killed Mac.” He wipes them and leaves as abruptly as he arrived, running silently down the hall.
A second later Jaime nods at me, and I follow him down the hall. A man I don’t recognize is slumped on the floor near the kitchen, a dark stain spreading beneath his body. Terror washes over me. Before tonight, I’d never seen a dead body and now I’ve seen two.
Just as Jaime begins to open the door, it’s hit with a bullet. The wood cracks and splints off. I scream as Jaime shoves me behind him, horrified to see that Callum is who shot the door.
“What're you doing, man?” Jaime yells, keeping me sandwiched between himself and the wall.
“I just fucking said you can’t take her out there!” he cries, his face red. Griff’s leaning heavily on him, blood dripping from his fingertips to the wood floor. “There could be more of ‘em out there!” He gestures to the dead guy on the floor, and my stomach heaves.
He’s right. We don’t know if there are more outside. But the thought of hiding and waiting for Jaime, Callum, and then me to get picked off is more than I can bear. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to just run.
But Callum leans Griff against the wall and walks over, brushing Jaime aside so he can cup my face with his free hand. “I don’t have time for this, Maeve. Either get back in that room or I’ll take you there myself.” His face is smudged with blood and dripping with sweat, and all I feel is the gun in his other hand, brushing against my thigh. “Jaime, you’re with me.”
“No,” Jaime says softly.
Callum blinks, slowly turning his head. “What?”
“She’ll be a sitting duck here, Cal. Let me take her with me,” Jaime says. “It’s not safe up here.”
“ Take her with you?” repeats Callum. His fingers tighten on my cheeks, his nails digging into my skin as his eyes burn into mine. “You fucking her or something?”
My heart, already racing, begins to beat so hard and so fast that my whole body throbs. Does he actually suspect the truth or is he just being paranoid and jealous? If we’d been sloppy, or if he’d had us tailed or something, we’d know by now, right?
“Callum, stop,” I plead, grabbing at his hands. But the idea’s in his head now, and I can see the gears turning. He’s thinking about the times he’s been gone, the hours I’ve spent in Jaime’s company. We could be as innocent as children, but it means nothing because he’s high as fuck and ready to fight anything he perceives as an enemy. Even Jaime, even me.
The fact is I want to leave with someone else, someone who can give me what Callum can’t—protection. It doesn’t matter that he was the one who hired Jaime.
But then he lets go of me. Trembling, I rub my cheeks. Griff slides down the wall to sit on the ground, and I wonder how badly off he actually is, what other injuries I can’t see.
Jaime shifts beside me, maybe anticipating Callum’s move, but Callum just pulls me away from the door and opens it. “Get out,” he says to Jaime.
“Cal—”
He presses the barrel of his gun to Jaime’s forehead. “Now.”
Jaime’s eyes meet mine as he steps out. The second he clears the threshold,Callum kicks the door shut and rounds on me, so close I feel his breath. “I told you, didn’t I? I said you’d regret it if you tried to leave.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“You were gonna leave with that fool?” he asks, scarily calm. Seems he’s forgotten all about the threat outside.
I shake my head, but he backhands me across the face. It’s worse than the hit on Thanksgiving, and I stumble against the wall, crying out.
“Are you fucking him, Maeve?” He slaps my cheek so hard that my head flies to the side.
“No,” I sob, scared enough that the pain barely registers. He’s going to kill me. I make eye contact with Griff over Callum’s shoulder, but he just stares back listlessly. I’ve known him since I was fifteen, and he’s going to sit there and watch his cousin beat me? Another sob rips through me.
As Callum grabs my arm and starts pulling me toward the hallway, the window beside the front door shatters with a shot. It hits Griff, who crumples into the corner. The world explodes in sound: the sharp, repetitive crack of bullets being fired and the shriek as they pass in close range. The crunch of glass underfoot as Jaime charges through the broken window like an angry god, the responding grunt of Callum’s rage as he fires his rounds.
In the movies, people often seem to miss at close range. It always felt so fake, a way to draw out the action sequence. Here though, in real life, it’s happening in front of my eyes. Bullets ricochet off of the ceiling and walls, pictures fall and shatter. I’m waiting for Jaime or Callum or both to hit the ground, but then Jaime shouts, loudly, and I realize he has been shot—in the upper part of his chest, if the way he’s holding himself is any indication.
I finally scramble to my feet as Callum goes to shoot him again. He’s a lot taller than me, and much bigger, but I manage to sort of tackle him from behind, causing him to pitch forward. I have nothing on my side but momentum and the element of surprise, but it works. His arm flies up and the bullet hits the ceiling.
Enraged, he spins around and boxes me in the face so viciously I feel something crack.
Blackness swings in front of my eyes as I fall to my knees, the sharp explosion of pain radiating through my head and face in aching, burning waves. It hurts so bad that for a moment, I can’t breathe.
There’s yelling, a lot of it, and I think I might hear sirens but I can’t be sure. It’s hard to see because blood is dripping into my eye. I wipe it and squint across the foyer to where Jaime and Callum are rolling around the ground. I know Callum’s hurt, but he’s so hopped up that his energy seems boundless. Jaime, on the other hand, is fighting injured. I have no doubt that he’d have had the upper hand normally, as he’s in excellent shape, but that bullet wound has him at a serious disadvantage.
I don’t know if they ran out of ammunition or if something happened when I went down, but the only weapons they’re using now are their fists.
“Maeve, run!” screams Jaime, his voice raw but almost garbled, like he can’t talk through the beating he’s taking.
Adrenaline soars through my veins, pushing me to my feet. I take off for the bedroom, slipping and falling on the blood in the hallway. Something falls in the other room. More glass breaks. I get up and keep going, bursting into the bedroom.
There are definitely sirens now, but they’ll be too late.
I yank my underwear drawer open so hard it comes right out of the dresser and I fall back on my ass. A rainbow of panties showers out like confetti, revealing the Glock 19 I keep hidden in there. It’s loaded; Jaime told me not to keep a gun unless I was ready to use it.
Every second happens on its own. I’m not planning or even thinking about what I’m going to do, I’m just doing it. I go back down the hallway. I avoid the blood this time and return to the foyer right in time to see Callum get the advantage. He starts whaling on Jaime, his fists connecting wildly and furiously. Jaime is getting in hits too, but they're few and far between, one arm noticeably weaker than the other. Seeing him like that guts me.
“Stop it!” I scream, cocking the gun. “Callum!”
I don’t know if it’s on purpose or because he’s too far gone, but he ignores me. Raising the gun, I shoot the ceiling. Plaster and dust rain down.
Everything stops. Callum turns slowly, and it’s like a demon has taken over his face. There’s so much hatred, violence seeping from his pores like sweat. “Put that shit down,” he rasps, his voice nearly gone.
“Get off him,” I shriek. I can hardly get the words out, I’m shaking so badly.
Callum climbs off Jaime and comes at me so quickly I don’t have time to think. I’m back in San Leandro, aiming for my target. One shot. Two. I’m ready for the kickback but not the look on Callum’s face as it morphs into surprise and confusion. He falls, maybe a foot away from where I’m standing, twin blooms of blood spreading across his shirt.
Blood is everywhere, splattered across the wall and even me. I drop to my knees, vomiting. After a second I peek at Callum, but he’s not moving except for a single tear leaking from his eye.
Across the room, Jaime is also still. With a strangled sob I crawl over to him, horrified by the swollen, mangled condition of his face. I put a hand on his chest and my ear to his mouth, checking for signs of life. Shallow, stilted breaths puff through his lips, and while his heartbeat seems faint, it’s there.
And then I can’t stop crying, the sobs and gulps so deep that I’m almost gagging.
I just killed someone.
I just killed Callum.
I killed Callum.
I turn my face aside, heaving again, and again, but there’s nothing left in my system.
“J-Jaime … Cruz … don’t die,” I whisper brokenly, putting my head on his chest. If he would only open his eyes a second, give me some kind of sign, I’d be okay. “Please, please, don’t leave me. Please. I love you.”
I feel, rather than hear, him moan. His fingers brush against my hair before falling to his side, and I cradle his hand, careful not to squeeze the swollen flesh. I don’t know the extent of his injuries, but I cling to the hope that this gives me. I can’t lose him now. I can’t.
The brief interlude of silence that followed my killing Callum ends with flashing lights and men in what look like SWAT uniforms busting down the door. They scream at me to drop my weapon, which I’d forgotten I was even holding.
I sob openly as they surround me, filling the house, walkie-talkies crackling, boots squeaking on the floor. The sun is coming up, and morning light floods the windows, illuminating the chaos and carnage with beams of orange and gold. I can see dust motes dancing in the glow, something peaceful in all of this terribleness.
It looks like a war zone.
While part of me knows that this is only the beginning, that there will be an investigation and trial, that I’m going to be questioned and doubted, I’m too concerned with Jaime to care. Cruz. His name is Cruz .
I’ve heard of police officers going deep undercover, but where does he go from here? Provided he survives, how does he rebuild his life? We knew we couldn’t be together, but how can I walk away from him now?
A light pressure on my arm pulls me back to reality. There’s a woman with a blonde ponytail squatting down in front of me, saying something. Her eyes are so blue they’re nearly lavender, and she’s pretty, too pretty to be doing this, I think. I stare at her, unable to focus. The woman frowns, pity and compassion softening her expression.
The police realize pretty quickly that maybe I am a victim too, because after asking a couple of questions, they wrap me delicately in a blanket and load me into a waiting ambulance. I hear comments about all the other dead bodies , and I wonder who they are, where they are, and if Callum was the one that took their lives. If it was Griffin, or Mac.
Now that the adrenaline is gone and my hysteria has died down, the physical pain takes over. Everything hurts, even blinking my eyes. I can’t imagine what I must look like, and I don’t have the energy to care.
All I care about is Cruz. Do they know he’s one of them? Of course, they don’t.
“Is he okay? Please tell me,” I plead with the EMTs who are tending to me, squirming from their touch. “Is he okay?”
“They’re making sure he’s stable,” one of them says vaguely.
“I need to see him,” I say. “I need to know.”
“We're taking you both to Highland.” The EMT carefully eases an oxygen mask over my throbbing face. “You can see him later.”