Page 110 of Steinbeck
Emberly lay, her face in a puddle of blood.He grabbed her vest, pulled her along the concrete floor like...
Not a rag doll.Not acorpse.
He dropped behind the truck and pulled her into his arms, turned her over.
Her beautiful eyes were closed, and blood smeared her face, her nose clearly broken.Please be alive, please?—
Her pulse thumped under his fingers at her neck.But her breath shuddered in and out, as if struggling.
More shots, and a shout, but he ignored them as he laid her down, searching for the wound.
She wore a Kevlar vest—good girl—and he found where the bullet had made a terrible dent in the casing on her right side, torso.He unzipped the vest and opened it.
No blood, and yet she still struggled.
“Sorry, babe.”He lifted her shirt.Deep red-purple stained her skin, evidence of internal bleeding.
“She must have broken ribs when the bullet hit,” Shep said, standing close enough to see the damage.
“She saved my life,” said Britta, her arms around her updrawn knees.“She just stood there, right in front of me, and let him shoot her!”
“Okay, okay”—Shep held up his hand to Britta—“just breathe.”
Steinbeck, too, clung to Shep’s advice.Just breathe.
Just breathe, Emberly!
“Listen,” Shep said.“You back up London—I’ll take care of Emberly.”
Stein looked up, past Shep.London stood behind the open passenger-side door of the truck, well-armed.
“She’s not leaving here without Tomas.This is personal,” Shep said.
Yeah, well,for him too, and the thought galvanized him.“Don’t.Let.Her.Die.”
Shep’s mouth tightened, a thin line that Steinbeck refused to think about.
Stay with me, Emberly.He scooted up along the truck and opened the driver’s-side door.
Glanced at London through the truck.She wore a black hat over her blonde hair and had a dark expression.“Any ideas?”
He found Colt and Tate and motioned to them.Colt got up, scuttled over to Madeline behind her pallet, ducking as a shot whizzed over his head.
Tate pulled off a shot, but it pinged against the forklift as the shooter vanished.
If Steinbeck had time...He glanced at Tate, met his eyes.
Tate nodded and hunkered down in position.Gave just the slightest bob of his head.
“Look alive,” Steinbeck said to London.
Then he got up and stepped out from behind the car door.He took off at a run, nothing too fast, but fast enough.
The Bratva shooter took the bait.He rose just a little and?—
Tate sent him sprawling back behind the forklift.
Stein skidded behind a row of barrels.
