Chapter 192: INTERCEPTION II

Emerson’s Pov.

“Yes sir,” Mitch answers, shifting on his feet and drawing attention. From right beside him I can see the bulge of a weapon and it keeps me still. I can’t even blink without thinking I might die for it.

The ringleader chuckles. “Yeah. You know how it is, early brunch, which is breakfast.”

It’s very casual, rehearsed probably, almost a joke. But I don't think the cops believe him, as they look at our outfits. They certainly don't fucking laugh.

I've been staring a hole at the back of Officer Miles’ head and finally he glances at me, partially hidden behind Mitch. A flicker, a heartbeat of attention and I grab onto it. I raise my face, let the fear show through my eyes.

His eyes narrow and drop down to the rest of me. I angle myself slightly, making sure he sees the cut, the redness on my skin from the ropes. His gaze sharpens like a blade.

“Sir,” he says, addressing me now. “You all right there?”

I see both of them twitch and I don't dare to answer but I keep my gaze on him. I'm yelling for him to help me, in my head and I hope it fucking translates.

“He’s fine,” the ringleader cuts in. “My cousin. He had a rough night, if you catch my drift.”

The older cop’s jaw tightens, as he winks. “Yeah, sure. But I'm gonna need to see some ID. All of you.”

There's a dangerous pause from the two men beside me, one I think the cops can feel because their eyes dart from one to the other quickly.

“Of course, officers,” says the ringleader, reaching slowly into his jacket. My heartrate kicks up a notch. I know what else is in that fucking jacket.

There's no time to do anything. I'm right though, his hand doesn’t come back with a wallet. It comes back with steel.

Everything goes to shit at once.

Gunfire shatters the peaceful morning air. The world becomes rife with sound and chaos and heat. The cops dive for cover towards their car, shouting threats and commands I can’t make out. The one in the driver seat is out in a moment, returning fire.

I drop to the ground instinctively, arms over my head, sand biting into my palms as my body vibrates with fear.

Mitch fires uncoordinated, his eyes manic then screams as a bullet catches him in the shoulder. It sends him to the ground near me but even there, he’s still firing wildly.

The ringleader moves like he’s done this before, and it's not hard to believe. He's crouched low, limiting his considerable bulk even though there's nothing to hide behind. And he's precise, actually aiming at the cops. If they didn't have their car in front of them, he might have hit at least one.

“Stay down!” someone yells. I don’t know who, my ears are ringing.

I can’t breathe. My body won’t listen. Every breath feels like it might be my last so rationally if I don't breathe. . .

I can only watch.

In a stroke of luck the ringleader slows down. I'm not sure if he's running out of bullets or his gun gets jammed but it gives the cops an opening.

And boy do they take it. Two of them fire at him and the bullets both hit their mark.

The ringleader jerks violently, crimson blooming across his chest. He falls backward, his gun clattering beside him and he's still.

I hope he's fucking dead.

Mitch is actually — barely— and still shooting, uncontrollably, the bullets acting as some sort of shield for him. But immediately he sees his colleague go down, he makes a decision. He yanks out his knife, spares me a glance and lets it fly.

Oh fuck.

It’s coming right to my head. And I don't have much time to get out of the way. I move, scrambling in the sand, every part of me thrumming with the awareness that if I'm not fast enough, that will be my fucking end.

The distraction costs him. Mitch doesn’t get another shot in. The older cop drops him with two quick rounds. He collapses, eyes wide, mouth unmoving.

I hope he's fucking dead too—

Fucking hell.

I hear myself make a glugging sound of pain, recoiling away from my own self as I feel the blade slide into flesh. I guess I wasn't fast enough.

I scream. Or maybe I don’t. I don't fucking know. The world narrows to that single point of agony, hot and bright and unbearable.

My hand flies to the wound automatically, sending another harsh jolt of pain through me, immediately getting soaked. I look down at it and nearly faint. It's gushing, warm blood rushing out of me like it has somewhere else more important to be.

Silence follows, ringing silence, broken only by my ragged breaths.

But I'm alive, I'm fucking alive.

The knife missed my head, lodged itself in my thigh inside. I'm alive—

I just. . . feel so woozy. . .

Boots pound closer. Someone’s shouting, calling for backup, yelling. A hand lands on my shoulder.

“Hey! Stay with me, okay? You’re wounded, but it’s not bad. You’re gonna be all right.”

I look up into the officer’s face. I can barely see it, but I try to nod. He says I'm going to be alright but it doesn't really feel that way. It feels like someone is drinking me out with a straw. I'm rapidly losing energy, getting tired of even holding my head up.

So I put it down.

Everything is softer now though, doesn't feel so serious anymore, especially as my captors are, fingers fucking crossed, dead. I may be in so much pain right now, but it feels like I can finally sleep with both eyes closed.

I think I will. . . Yes, I think I'll take a little nap. . .