Page 45 of Crystal Wrath
“Military training,” Yavin replies tersely, his focus entirely on keeping Nick stable. “Long time ago.”
I smooth Nick's hair back from his forehead, whispering reassurances I'm not sure he can hear. “Hang in there, Nick. Please. The ambulance is coming. You're going to be okay. You have to be okay.”
The scent of blood turns my stomach, but I force myself to stay calm. Nick needs me to be strong right now. He's been my anchor since I started at the paper, the steady presence who believed in my abilities even when I doubted myself. I can't lose him, not like this.
The paramedics arrive within minutes that feel like hours, their equipment clattering as they rush through the destroyed office. They move with methodical speed, checking vitals, starting an IV, and preparing Nick for transport.
“Are you family?” one of them asks as they load him onto a stretcher.
“I'm his employee,” I answer, then add more firmly, “but I'm the closest thing to family he has.”
It's true. The newspaper is his life, and we're his family ever since he lost his wife. I've spent countless evenings in his office, working late on stories and listening to his tales from the golden age of journalism. He taught me that the truth is worth fighting for, even when it's dangerous.
They let me ride in the ambulance, and I grip Nick's hand during the entire journey to the hospital. His fingers are cold and limp in mine, but I squeeze gently anyway, hoping some part of him knows I'm there.
Hours pass in the sterile waiting room like a slow-motion nightmare. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, bathing everything in harsh white light. The smell of disinfectant burns my nostrils, and the constant beeping of machines creates a soundtrack of anxiety.
I pace the worn vinyl floor until Yavin gently suggests I sit down. He brings me coffee from the vending machine that tastes like liquid cardboard, but I drink it anyway because it gives me something to do with my hands.
When the doctor finally emerges from the surgical wing, still wearing his scrubs, my heart leaps into my throat. His expression is tired but not bleak, which I take as a good sign.
“He's stable,” he tells me, and the relief hits me so hard I nearly collapse into the uncomfortable plastic chair. “The bullet missed any major organs, but he lost a significant amount of blood. He's unconscious, but his vitals are strong. We expect a full recovery.”
I press my hands to my face, finally allowing the tears I've been holding back to fall. They come in great, heaving sobs that shake my entire body. Yavin awkwardly pats my shoulder, his attempt at comfort both touching and endearing.
After composing myself, I return to the office with a heavy heart. The police have come and gone, taking statements and photographs, but the wreckage remains. Crime scene tape blocks off Nick's immediate area, but the rest of the newsroom is accessible.
As I carefully sift through the papers strewn across the floor, picking up fragments of stories and scattered notes, a cold realization begins to settle in my stomach like lead. Something is missing. Several somethings, actually.
The files I'd compiled on the Bennato family are gone. The zoning records that revealed suspicious property transactions, the financial documents that tracked money through various shell companies, and the witness statements I'd collected from people brave enough to speak about corruption in the city government. All of it vanished.
But they weren't thorough enough. Hidden in my desk drawer, beneath a stack of old press releases, I find a USB drive containing digital copies of some of my research. Not everything, but enough to continue the investigation. My hands shake as I pocket it, looking around to make sure no one is watching.
The air in the office feels colder now, charged with menace. Whoever did this wasn't just trying to hurt Nick. They were sending me a message: back off.
I grab my phone and call Amelia, needing to hear a friendly voice in this nightmare.
“Elena? Thank God, I've been worried sick. I heard about the shooting on the news.”
“Nick was shot,” I confirm, my voice hollow with exhaustion. “He's going to make it, but the office is completely trashed. Files are missing. Someone wanted to send a message, and they made sure it was received loud and clear.”
“Oh my God, Elena. Where are you right now?” Amelia's voice is tight with worry, and I can hear her moving around, probably grabbing her keys. “We need to meet. Let me come get you.”
Before I can respond, Yavin reappears in the doorway of the newsroom. His expression is firm, his stance impenetrable like a wall of muscle and determination. The easy camaraderie from the hospital has been replaced by a professional focus.
“Renat instructed me to take you back to the mansion,” he announces, his accent thickening with authority.
I grip the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white. “I'm not ready to go yet. There's still work to do here.”
“It wasn't a request,” Yavin replies, and there's something in his tone that brooks no argument. “I was given specific orders.”
My pulse spikes and I feel the familiar sensation of walls closing in around me. The newsroom, once my sanctuary and safe haven, now feels like another cage. The freedom I tasted thismorning is already slipping away, replaced by the oppressive hold of protection that feels more like imprisonment.
“Tell him I'll be there after I meet with Amelia,” I try to negotiate. But Yavin shakes his head before I finish speaking.
“I was told to bring you back. Directly. No stops, no detours.”
The panic I've been holding at bay since finding Nick begins to rise in my throat like bile. I swallow hard, forcing myself to maintain composure. “I need to use the restroom before we leave.”
