Page 99 of Of Grief And Gratitude

“Fine,” Sam interrupted, tapping his gun on the wood. “You go on my count of three.”

“Got it.” I shifted, prepared to leap forward.

“And Neretti?”

“Yeah, Sam?”

“Don’t fucking die, asshole.”

I grinned maniacally over my shoulder, seeing the brothers poised to shoot. “I wouldn’t dare. Riona would kill me.”

They chuckled, then Sam counted down. “One… Two… Three. Go!”

I launched myself toward the end of the porch, the staccato of gunfire echoing around me as I raced haplessly across the planks. Bracing my hand on the rail, I hurdled it and landed heavily behind the protection of the porch. My eyes found Riona, and I squinted, watching for movement.

There.

“She’s breathing!” I called down the porch.

Stupid move. As I turned to look at the brothers, a black figure pointed his weapon in Riona’s direction. She was exposed, helpless against whatever hit her. Sam raised his gun and fired, but I didn’t wait to see if he hit his mark. I sprinted toward Riona, covering her body with mine.

Silence descended.

It was the silence of death, punctuated by my heavy breathing and the shallow rise of Riona’s chest. Every breath was a blessing.

“Riona,” I whispered, examining her ghostly face. Paler than pale. It was alarming to see her unconscious.

Boots crunched on gravel, but I kept my eyes on the woman under me, stroking her hair away from her face as I braced myself above her, trying not to touch her arm.

“Clear!” Sean yelled from the other side of the house.

Sam walked toward me, gun still in hand. “All down but two, and one isn’t looking too hot. How is she?”

“I’m not sure.” I rolled off Riona and sat, quickly assessing her by feeling her limbs. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled my knife out and flipped the blade open, motioning to her bloody sleeve. “Help me with this.”

Sam knelt and held the sweatshirt away from Riona’s body as I sliced through the fabric and exposed the wound, an angry, bloody red gash traveling diagonally up her arm.

“Doesn’t look like there’s a bullet lodged in there,” Sam said, poking the skin around the wound. Fresh blood trickled down, further soaking the fabric underneath. “It doesn’t look like she’s lost enough blood to lose consciousness.”

“Right.” I’d seen her go down but hadn’t thought about how she’d fallen. Gently threading my fingers through her disheveled hair, I felt around her head. My fingers came away bloody. “There’s a lump.”

Sam shook his head. “Shit. You think it’s a concussion?”

“Fuck if I know,” I grunted.

Gravel crunched under approaching tires, and I reached for my gun, Sam and I drawing down on the truck. It didn’t give the right vibes to belong to our assailants, but it would be stupid not to treat it as a potential threat.

A tall, lanky, grey-haired man stepped out, a furry mutt hopping out after him and racing excitedly over, jumping at our legs and sniffing Riona’s face.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” Sam called out.

I tried to shoo the dog away from Riona. “Go. Get the fuck out, man.”

Instead, the dog sat, its pink tongue lolling out of its mouth as it tilted its head to the side.

“Sadie, knock it off,” the man called, and the mutt lay down next to Riona, laying its head on its paws. “I’m Doc Adams. Got a call from Dante. Said you might need help.”

The name was familiar, but the last time I’d seen the local doctor, I was ten and needed stitches after hitting my knee on a rock while trying to jump the creek.

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