Page 70 of The Wolves Come at Night
“You!”
“Commander Huston. My—”
“Shut up. Right now.” Taylor didn’t think she’d ever seen Huston so pissed off. She looked like a tiny deranged bumblebee. “I want you in my office in twenty minutes.” She stormed off toward the media scrum.
Uh-oh. This was not going to be good.
Taylor slid off the tailgate and followed gingerly. Huston had taken up a spot near Dan Franklin, and Taylor realized they were about to give a statement. She should be there. She caused this, this was her case, her mess. But Huston stared back at her, eyes shooting daggers. She pointed over Taylor’s shoulder, jabbing her finger, mouth set in a grim line, and it was very clear that her presence was not being requested.
Taylor forced herself not to limp toward Lincoln, who was chatting with the spotter and one of the snipers, standing wary with baseball caps backward. They’d tucked away their long-range rifles—the public tended to get upset when they saw such sophisticated weaponry.
“Hey,” she said. “You okay?”
“Better than you,” Lincoln said, reaching for her wrist, which he touched gently. It was visibly bruising. “This hurt?”
“All of me hurts.”
“I didn’t mean to push you down.”
“Linc. Trust me. You don’t owe me any apologies. I owe you one. We should have—”
“Don’t start that. We did this fine, turns out the guy was a squirrel after all.”
“Yeah,” the sniper said—his greens had the name “Marshal” on the pocket. “Righteous moves, all the way around. We’ll back you up, don’t worry. God knows what the dude was planning. We probably just saved a whole lotta folks.”
“When will the scene be cool enough to get inside and see if she’s in there?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Twenty-four hours, at least. I thought I saw another person in the east corner, but things were chaotic. Hoping I’m wrong.”
Taylor spied the media moving back to their vans and cars. The presser was over.
“I gotta run,” she told Lincoln. “Command performance with Huston.”
“I’ll come.”
“No. You stay here. Someone needs to keep this scene under control. She’s just going to ream me out. She’s seriously ticked off.”
“Check in with me later, then. I want to talk with Simeon, see if he’s found anything else on the phones. He’s smart. I wish I could use him more, but don’t worry, I won’t let him get his feet wet. Maybe just a toe or two.”
“Good. We’re in enough trouble as it is. And Linc? Thanks. You saved my life. I won’t forget it.”
He hugged her gently in response. “Can’t do this without you,” he murmured. “Don’t let her get too feisty with you.”
“You know I won’t.” She tried to smile but it made her lip hurt to stretch, so she settled for patting him on the shoulder with her good hand and strode off.
Taylor’s truck was two blocks over. She dug her keys out of her pocket, rather amazed that they were still there, and drove back toward headquarters. She stopped at Walgreens, grabbed a chemical ice pack, a bottle of Advil, and a stretchy Ace bandage, which she wound around her wrist. At least they had Velcro now instead of those stupid metal clips, which made it much easier to finish off. She was thankful it was her left hand she’d hurt. She must have fallen back on it, but the whole thing was a blur. She remembered the panic building in her chest as Burnkin went for the explosives, and then they were outside, she was on her face in the street, and the house was going up in a plume of smoke and ash.
She shook it off, literally, flipping her hair off her neck, bits of glass and wood hitting the ground. She was a mess.
When Taylor walked into her office, Delila gasped and jumped to her feet.
“Oh my goodness, Captain. Are you okay?”
She waved her good hand. “I’m fine. We’re all fine. Just a little sore. Huston back yet?”
Delila’s face fell. “Five minutes ago. She said to tell you to get in there the second I saw you.”
“Off I go, then.”
