Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Let me get you some painkillers,” I said, going to my drawer to grab some of my acetaminophen and the glass off the desk. “Here,” I said, dropping them into his hand. “Let me just get you some water,” I added, heading toward the bathroom to fill the glass.
I glanced at myself in the mirror as I waited for the water to get cold.
I saw excitement and relief in my eyes. But under that, disappointment and fear.
Because there were no more excuses now. It was all over. I had to hand this over to the police. Then I had to figure out where I was moving next, how I was going to afford it all, what life was going to look like from now on.
“Shit,” I said, the water overflowing the cup and pouring down my hand.
Those were problems to think about another time.
Now, I had to keep playing my role as an unconcerned campaign manager.
I flicked off the light and was starting out of the door when I saw something in the hall that had my stomach lurching.
A man in a black hoodie.
“Michael,” I hissed, heart hammering. “Get down,” I added as I watched, vision going into slow motion as my gaze landed on the flash of metal.
“What’s—“ he started, catching the look of horror on my face, and moving to stand, to turn and look where my gaze was frozen.
“No,” I cried as the man’s arm raised, aimed, at me.
Just as Michael took a step to the right, not realizing he was standing right in front of me. Right in the path of the bullet.
Instinct had me dropping down to a squat.
Just as the popping sound of the silenced gun broke out. As the bullet flew. As it struck the senator.
The gunman let out a string of Russian as he moved inward, trying to get a clear path to me.
Feeling like a monster for leaving Michael alone, shot with a bullet meant for me, I rushed into the bathroom, slamming, and locking the door, then scurrying to hide behind the sink cabinet, praying that if he shot through the door, there was enough between us to slow down the bullet, to make it less deadly if it did lodge in me.
Bile rose up my throat, knowing Michael was out there, shot, alone, likely terrified. But there was no way I could go out there when my own body was vibrating in fear, my heartbeat punching against my ribcage, a cold sweat trickling down my back.
There was a thunk, closer than felt comfortable. And before I could remind myself to stay hidden where I was relatively safe, I peeked out from behind the sink cabinet and saw a hole in the wall across from it.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
I had to do something.
I had to call for help.
With shaky hands, I drew out my phone, closing the recording app, and hitting 911.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“There’s been a shooting,” I whispered, rattling off the address.
“Did you say there was a shooting? Was anyone shot?”
“My boss. Senator Westmoore was shot.”
“Senator Westmoore?” she asked, voice tight.
“Yes.”
“Is he breathing?” she asked. “Where was he shot?”
“I don’t know. I’m hiding in the bathroom,” I said as another bullet whizzed into the room, making my shoulders draw up near my ears, my whole body tensing. “I think he was shot in the chest.”
“Help is on—“
There was a yell and a loud slam outside the door, making me gasp.
“Ma’am? Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, pulling the phone from my ear to hear better.
“Grab the gun!” Niel, one of the staffers yelled as there was another loud slam and a groan.
Were they… fighting the guy off?
“Get his legs,” Niel yelled, sounding breathless, like he was struggling to hold onto the guy.
I couldn’t just sit in here, cowering, while the other staffers put their life on the line against an attacker who was here for me.
“I think the staffers are holding onto the shooter,” I whispered into the phone before ending the call, tucking the phone back into my pocket as I inched toward the door, ignoring the way my belly was wobbling as I reached for the door handle.
As soon as I opened the door, there was a loud slam, and I saw Niel landing on top of the shooter on my desk as another male staffer rushed forward to grab the man’s legs.
While, just a few feet away, a female staffer was kicking the gun under the couch.
“Michael,” I hissed, rushing forward toward where he was slumped against the wall on the floor, his hand clutching his chest, blood seeping through his shirt and covering his fingers.
He was pale and sweating, his eyes round, and his breathing coming in short, frantic bursts.
“Hey,” I said, rushing toward him, and pressing my hand against his. I didn’t know much about gunshot wounds but I did know that you needed to put pressure on the wounds, to try to keep as much blood as possible inside. “It’s going to be okay,” I said as my computer monitor crashed to the ground. Then my pen holder, pens and pencils shot across the room as the men struggled to hold onto the shooter.