Page 31 of Resurrection

Finn breaks eye contact to scan the rest of the area. “Jay!”

“Here.”

“Ricardo?” Silence greets his second roll call. He has me pinned so close to the floor I can’t see what else is happening.

“He’s down.” Jay shuffles to the door.

“Dead?” Finn says.

“Not sure.”

“Shit.” Finn’s free hand holds the gun, but our position means his back is to the entrance. “Any more shots?”

“Haven’t heard anything for a minute.”

“Target?”

“Take your fucking pick. Could be you, Carys, or Ricardo. You’re all hot depending on who’s shooting.”

The pain in my shoulder isn’t lessening. Finn is half-turned toward the wall. He’s not touching the part that’s burning, so the sensation is not from any pressure he’s putting on it.

“Can I get up?” I take a deep breath, willing the sting to leave.

“No,” Jay’s and Finn’s voices ring out in unison.

“I’m going to get Carys secured away from the door,” Finn says. “Cover me.”

“Ready,” Jay says.

With astonishing swiftness, Finn rolls off me, scoops me up and carries me to the back of the tiny house. There are no pings or curses from Jay, so I’m hoping there are no more bullets. Finn sets me on the floor by the white kitchen cabinets and crouches to meet my eyes.

“You do not move until I call clear or Jay does, okay? You stay here.”

I don’t have a chance to respond before he’s gone. My shoulder aches, and I rub it in circular motions. The skin rotates under my fingers, making the burning worse. With a frown, I remove my hand and stare at my fingers. Wet. Bright red.Shit.

Scanning the kitchen, I grab the dishcloth hanging on the stove. When I hold the cloth against my injury, a sharp breath escapes me. Should I call for Finn? If television can be believed, a bullet to the shoulder is probably the most minor gunshot. Jay or Finn shouldn’t be distracted if there is danger at the door.

Worry eats at me. The silence in the other room is almost too much. In any other situation, I’d never sit here waiting for someone to help me. I can shoot a gun. But I gave the only weapon I carry to Finn. It would be stupid to charge into the other room unarmed. I could take a knife, but the joke about bringing a knife to a gunfight is only funny when you’re not theone stupid enough to do it. My brain circles for ideas, but the niggling thought I’ve been trying to keep at bay sneaks in. I could have died. If Finn hadn’t hauled me down, I might have died. Closing my eyes, I let my shoulders rest against the chipped cupboards.

“All clear!” Jay’s voice rings out.

I haul myself to my feet and take the towel away from my shoulder. It’s covered in blood, but given the time I’ve been sitting there, there’s not a ridiculous amount. With a deep breath, I drop the cloth into the sink. There’s a mirror above it, and the neckline of my shirt is wide. My finger finds the hole and slips in. Definitely shot.

“You okay?” Finn’s voice is quiet in the kitchen.

I snatch my hand away and whirl toward him. “Fine.” My smile is tight.

He tips his head at my shirt. “What were you doing?”

“Oh, it’s—well—just—"

He sets the gun on the counter and closes the distance between us. He touches my shoulder, and I gasp. His fingers find the hole. His gaze connects with mine, anger and worry warring in his pale depths. “You were fucking shot?”

“Um.” I press my lips together. “I think so?”

“Jesus Christ, Carys. When were you going to tell me?”

“I’m sure it’s not an actual bullet wound, a graze, a scratch probably, a burn.” I tug my sleeve over the mark.

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