Page 52 of His Sacrifice

Tatum and Murphy rushed from my office, their expressions turning from confusion to concern as they saw me standing there, shaking.

“What’s wrong?” Tatum asked, her voice urgent.

Murphy’s eyes followed my gaze to the phone on the floor. He quickly grabbed it, his face darkening as he read the message. “Son of a bitch,” he growled. He looked around the store, eyes narrowing. “Where is Creed?” he demanded.

I couldn’t speak. My throat felt like it was closing up, and my mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion. I was frozen, unable to process anything beyond the sheer terror that had taken hold of me.

“What is going on?” Tatum asked again, her voice rising with panic.

Murphy moved to the door and turned the lock, securing it with a swift motion. “Where is Creed?” he asked me again, more urgently this time.

I shook my head, trying to pull myself together. “Uh, he went to the coffee shop,” I managed to stammer out, my voice barely above a whisper.

My phone buzzed again in Murphy’s hand. The sound felt like a jolt of electricity running through me, snapping me out of my daze.

“What is going on?” Tatum screamed, her eyes wide with fear and frustration.

Murphy tossed her the phone. She clumsily grabbed it out of the air, almost dropping it before steadying herself. She read off the new message, “Who will make the sacrifice?” Her face went pale, and she looked up at us, her eyes full of dread. “What does that mean?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice shaking. “But it can’t be good.”

Murphy pulled his phone out, his frustration palpable. “I am so done with this damn bitch,” he muttered, swiping a few times before putting the phone to his ear. He paced back and forth in front of the door, his agitation growing. “Answer your damn phone,” he muttered again, almost to himself.

“He’s just next door,” I called, trying to calm him down. “He should be back any minute.” At least, I hoped he would be.

The door rattled as someone tried to open it from the other side. “What the hell?” a voice called out.

My eyes lit up. “That’s Creed,” I exclaimed, relief washing over me.

“Thank fuck,” Murphy sighed, turning the lock. But before Creed could even step inside, three loud cracks sounded, and time stood still.

Tatum screamed shrilly, the sound piercing through the sudden silence.

Creed’s body jerked violently as the bullets hit him. The first shot slammed into his shoulder, twisting him to the side. The second hit him square in the chest, and he staggered, his face contorted in pain and shock. He collapsed to the ground, blood pooling around him.

Murphy quickly grabbed Creed’s body, pulling him into the bookstore. He stood up and pulled a gun from a holster at his side. “Call nine-one-one,” he shouted, his voice a mix of fury and urgency.

Tatum scrambled for my phone, her hands shaking as she dialed the emergency number and put it on speakerphone. “Oh my god, oh my god,” she kept repeating while she waited for someone to answer. “Help,” she shouted into the phone. “I’m at 1409 Michigan Ave. My friend has been shot. We need an ambulance; please hurry,” she pleaded.

Creed moaned on the floor, his eyes fluttering open. I dropped to my knees beside him, pressing my hands against his wounds in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.

Murphy opened the door slightly and peered outside. Tires squealed, and a blacked-out SUV tore down the street, disappearing around the corner. He slammed the door shut and locked it again, his face set in grim determination.

“Stay with me, Creed,” I pleaded, tears streaming down my face. “Help is on the way; just hold on. Please don’t leave me.”

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with pain but also a fierce determination. “I’m not going anywhere,” he managed to say, his voice weak but resolute.

Murphy crouched beside us, his gun still in his hand. “They’re gone,” he said, his voice tight. “But we need to get him to a hospital now.”

I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest. The operator on the phone assured Tatum that an ambulance was on its way, but it felt like an eternity.

“Hang in there, Creed,” I whispered, my hands still pressing against his wounds. “You’re going to be okay. You have to be okay,” I whispered.

Minutes stretched on like hours, but finally, the sound of sirens filled the air. Paramedics burst through the door, and I was pushed to the side as they worked quickly to stabilize Creed. I watched in a daze as they loaded him onto a stretcher and rushed him out to the waiting ambulance.

Murphy, Tatum, and I followed the ambulance in his car. The ride to the hospital was a blur of flashing lights and frantic prayers as Murphy stayed on the ambulance’s ass the whole way. When we arrived, Creed was whisked away to surgery, leaving us in the sterile, too-bright waiting room.

I collapsed into a chair, my body shaking with fear and adrenaline. Murphy sat beside me, his face a mask of controlled rage. “We’re going to find who did this,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “And they’re going to pay.”

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