Page 54 of Song Bird Hearts
“Two on the roof! One in the street! Two down! Go, go, go!”
More shouts follow his, filling the air as everyone rushes to take cover. Their panic fuels my frantic heartbeat and I start to worry someone is going to get shot, has already been shot, because of me.
Something pings by us and my arm stings, making me jerk in Knox’s arms. The sting disappears and is replaced with something wet. . . something. . .
CRACK!
A final shot, clear and controlled, rings out over the chaos. The screaming stops as everyone realizes the gunshots aren’t coming anymore. A loud thump follows the silence. I twist in Knox’s grip to see. . .
John stands in the middle of the street, his revolver still smoking. On the ground in front of him is a body where the man must have rolled off the roof. Someone thinks to grab one of the cameras livestreaming and come closer to John, zooming in on the intensity of his face. Good ole John, the man who has zero social media, seems to understand. He looks directly into the camera, but he says nothing as he tucks his gun away and tips his hat to anyone watching.
Steele fought back. And the entire world saw it.
And there’s no mistaking the message we’d just sent.
We’re done hiding.
I’m done hiding.
And Steele won’t be going down without a fight.
Chapter27
Valerie
White Stag is silent when we roll up into the drive.
Not quiet, literally silent. The kind of silence that follows a storm, or a funeral. Not everyone has come back from the Boot Skoot yet. John stayed behind to help secure the scene and take care of any paperwork that comes with having to shoot three attackers that didn’t survive. Plenty of people stayed with the Sheriff to make sure those who were injured were okay.
We were lucky.
There were only a few injuries, where bullets had caught those running out. A gunshot to the leg, one to the arm. A few people were hurt in the stampede. But there were no deaths. My own arm sports a nasty bullet graze, but it’s nothing compared to some of the other injuries.
We were escorted back to White Stag by a crowd of comforting onlookers, familiar faces mixed with strangers, ones I’ve never been more thankful for. These people are here for me, their supportive aura the only thing keeping me from calling it quits for everyone else’s benefit. They can shoot at me, but the moment my friends are in danger, I wonder if I actually made a mistake. Just like Knox said it was.
The lights in the house are low as we walk inside. Tension crackles through the air like static, setting my nerves on fire. I step down from the truck John had let us borrow, my heart hammering in my chest. Blood is starting to soak through my shirt sleeve. It’s not much, just enough to remind me what had nearly happened.
I don’t need reminding.
Knox steps down from the driver’s side and slams the door shut hard enough to make Kevin snort in protest from where he’s sitting on the front porch, his soft happy sounds at the sight of me like being wrapped in a warm blanket.
“Where’s the first aid kit?” Knox asks without looking at me.
“Upstairs in my room,” I answer quietly. “Top shelf of the closet.”
I follow him as he storms up the stairs. Whatever tension is in Knox’s shoulders makes the others tense. They decide to wait downstairs for us, so when I walk into my room, it’s only the two of us as he shoves open the doors of my closet and looks around for the kit.
He doesn’t say anything as he looks, just stands with his shoulders coiled tight, like he’s just barely holding himself together. The room is as dim as the rest of the house, the only light on the table lamps.
“Do you need me to turn on the light?” I ask, reaching for the switch.
He doesn’t answer, so I flick it on and watch as he finds the kit and drags it down. I sit on the edge of the bed and try to roll my long sleeve up only to realize I can’t. He’s gonna have to get to the wound, so I make a split-second decision.
“Sorry,” I murmur, before reaching for the hem of my shirt and pulling it over my head, leaving me sitting there in only my bra.
Knox stumbles to a stop for a split second before he continues forward. No words fall from his lips. It’s just the same tight-jawed silence from before as he kneels in front of me and opens the first aid kit. He rummages around inside for a few things while I sit there, staring at him. The only sound is from him moving things around the box and the creak of the others downstairs walking around on the hardwood.
The sting of the antiseptic on my arm isn’t what makes me flinch. It’s the way he touches me, so carefully, tender in a way that doesn’t match the storm in his expression.
