16. Maverick #2
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy slight movement above us.
With only a split second to react, I shout, turning and lunging in front of Spencer right as a single gunshot shatters the silence.
A sharp, burning pain explodes in my left shoulder, knocking me backward.
My vision blurs as I hit the concrete floor with a groan, the gun falling from my hand and clattering out of reach.
“Rhodes!” Spencer shouts at the same time the unit leader orders, “Contact front! Take cover!”
The agents respond instantly, spreading out and returning fire toward the unseen shooter in the rafters. Spencer ignores the order and pulls me behind a stack of hay bales. “Stay with me, Rhodes!”
A grunt of pain escapes me when he presses down on the wound. I clench my teeth and manage to ask, “You good?”
Spencer nods, eyes scanning the rafters for the target. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”
We weren’t even supposed to be here. Spencer and I were walking into the FBI office when the tactical team was gearing up. Mark, the unit leader, asked if we wanted in on some fun.
I don’t know if the searing pain and blood loss could be called fun, but here we are.
More shots fire, and I hear the heavy footsteps of someone in the rafters above. A sickening thud follows a final gunshot.
“Suspect down!”
* * *
“How are you holding up?”
It takes herculean effort to turn my head toward Spencer’s voice. Something about his tone has me on alert, but it’s hard to decipher with the pain medications dripping through the IV. “Been better.”
“You took one for the team,” he says somberly.
Unable to sit up, I glance around the room and search for another presence. It’s only Spencer. I remember the searing pain spreading from my left shoulder, the ambulance ride to the hospital, the phone call Spencer made to Heather, the surgery to remove the bullet. “Heather here?”
Spencer shakes his head, then, in a tortured whisper, speaks the words I never thought I’d hear. “There’s been an accident, Mav. Heather… she was on her way here… A truck ran a red light. She didn’t make it. I’m sorry, brother.”
I don’t think I can process what he’s saying. It’s like my brain is stuck in a loop: She didn’t make it, she didn’t make it, she didn’t make it.
His phone starts to ring, but he doesn’t acknowledge it nor make any move to answer. Who keeps call ? —
The sound of my phone ringing snaps me awake.
I’m disoriented—I haven’t dreamed of that moment, of her , in a long time.
Reaching blindly for my phone, my hand slaps around the nightstand until I find it.
The illuminated screen makes me squint, but the name running across it sends a jolt to my heart.
She never calls. And it’s the middle of the night.
“Clara?” I rush to answer and sit up, my voice scratchy with sleep. “What’s going on?”
“Maverick. Someone’s been in my apartment.” She’s whispering, but I can hear the fear in her tone. It makes all my protective instincts roar to life.
“Where are you?” I’m already moving, throwing on clothes, unlocking my weapon from its safe box, and tucking it into my waistband.
“I ran into the bathroom and blocked the door. I’m hiding in the shower stall.”
“Good girl. I’m on my way. Don’t open the door for anyone, you hear me? Stay right where you are.”
“I’m scared, Maverick.” Her voice trembles, and it’s clear she’s holding back tears.
I’m in my car less than a minute later, slamming the door shut and peeling out of the driveway. “I’m on my way, sunshine. Stay on the phone with me. Tell me what happened.”
Putting my phone on speaker, I listen to her breathing and break every traffic law in the book.
“I, uhm… I had a nightmare, and I couldn’t… couldn’t go back to sleep. I took a shower. When I walked b-back into my b-bedroom, the bed was m-made.” It seems impossible for her voice to get any quieter, but it does when she says, “I didn’t make the bed, Mav. I left the blankets on the floor.”
A stream of curses fill the silence of my car. That motherfucker. “I’m almost there.” Clara remains quiet—the sound of her sniffling and heavy breathing is all I hear.
I’ve spent the last seven years since Heather died focused entirely on work, throwing myself into cases whenever I can.
On the occasions I needed a physical release, I’d go out and find someone—someone who knew it was only for one night.
But that’s all it’s been. I haven’t wanted to risk failing someone else the way I failed Heather.
The reminder that her life was cut short because of me is a weight on the gas pedal, speeding me toward Clara.
I make it to Clara’s apartment building in less than ten minutes, coming to a hard stop right in front of the entrance. “I’m here, sunshine. I’m on my way up. Don’t leave the bathroom, okay? Stay there.” I wait for her to confirm then hang up.
The slam of a car door snaps my attention sideways. I freeze before the building’s front entrance when I spot a uniformed officer approaching. Must be Clara’s protective detail. What good are they if this fucker can slip past them undetected?
I don’t have time for this. Every instinct screams at me to reach Clara. Now.
I flash my badge without breaking stride. “Special Agent Maverick Rhodes.”
The officer opens his mouth, but I’m already past him, pushing through the glass doors and heading straight toward the stairwell next to the elevator.
Shoving open the stairwell door, I race up the flights until I reach her floor. Her apartment is locked, but it takes zero effort to break the knob.
She won’t be staying here, anyway.
Drawing my weapon, I leave the door open behind me—my only concern is making sure Clara is safe. The weight of the gun is comforting as I check each room, ensuring the apartment is clear before heading to the bedroom.
When I reach the bathroom door, I knock three times. “Clara? Sunshine, it’s me. It’s all clear. It’s safe to open the door.”
“Maverick?” I hear her call out from inside along with rustling against the door. A bang has my weapon up and a hand on the handle in a flash. Just as I’m about to break this one, too, the door swings open. I’m nearly thrown back when a small body collides with mine.
I quickly tuck my gun away then wrap both arms around Clara’s shaking frame. “Shh, shh. You’re safe now.” I nestle my chin against the top of her head, running my hand in small circles along her shoulders. “You’re safe, sunshine.”
She pulls away much too soon, lifting her shirt to wipe her face. “I’m sorr?—”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare apologize. You have nothing to apologize for, sunshine.”
“I woke you up. And I soaked your shirt,” she says, her tone rueful.
I don’t even bother responding. I simply walk to her closet and search for a suitcase or duffle bag—anything she can use to put her things into because she sure as shit isn’t staying here.
“Maverick? What are you doing?”
“You’re not staying here.”
“Wait. What do you mean I’m not staying here?” She watches me pull a suitcase from the top shelf and set it on her bed.
“You’re not staying here,” I restate. “You’re staying with me. Pack your things.”
She stares at me, brown eyes full of disbelief. Her jaw hangs open but no response comes out.
I point to her suitcase and repeat my demand. “Pack your shit, sunshine. I can pack for you, but I doubt you’ll like how I do it.”
Because at this point, I’ll throw all the shit inside just so we can leave, and I’m not leaving without her. The sooner I get her away from this place, the better.