“Breathe with me, Lydia. In and out. In and out. Just like this.” He inhaled, exhaled, slowly, loudly, forcing her to follow along. “Good girl. Keep breathing. In. Out. Focus on my breaths. There you go.”
He held still, watching her power through the anguish until her legs regained strength, firmly holding her up. Her shoulders squared. Her jaw stiffened, and her breathing evened out.
“Christ, you’re so fucking strong.” He grasped her nape and brought their foreheads together. “You’ve got this. Three minutes. Go.”
He stepped back, and she walked stiffly up the stairs, moving quickly, up and around the corner.
Returning to the doorway, he stayed out of view and scanned the perimeter. No movement. Then he stepped outside and quickly rummaged through Mike’s clothes while keeping an eye on the street.
Both of Mike’s guns were holstered, suggesting he’d been caught unaware and didn’t have time to fire off a shot.
Cole collected the weapons, a wallet, phone, and… He pried open Mike’s frozen hand and lifted a small wrapped present.
A Christmas present with a tiny red bow.
“Goddammit, Mike.” He pocketed the gift in his jacket, his chest aching. “This is going to fucking hurt her. She’s going to mourn you for the rest of her life.”
But she wouldn’t do it alone. Cole would be with her in whatever capacity she needed.
Once he’d gathered everything he thought she would want to keep, he piled it in the entryway and surveyed the snow-covered surroundings.
His blood heated with the sprint of his pulse, every instinct inside him demanding swift action. They needed to go before someone called the gardai. They needed to disappear, but Lydia didn’t have a car, and cabs didn’t travel through here.
They would have to flee on foot.
With Mike’s murderer on the loose.
He twisted at the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. As he shifted to turn back to the front, a resounding boom cracked the air. The gunshot discharged from the street and splintered the doorframe an inch away from his head.
His lungs emptied. He aimed the pistol and dropped low to the ground, his senses reaching for Lydia.
“Stay down.” He thrust a hand behind him, stalling her descent on the stairs. “Lock the door behind me. Do not open it until I return. Understand?”
“Cole—”
“Lock the door!” Adrenalized and laser-focused, he slipped onto the porch, ducking low and shutting the door behind him.
At the sounds of engaging locks, he melted into the shadows of the hedgerow lining the property.
Surrounded by parked cars, icy trees, wheelie bins, and terraced houses, he probed the spaces between, frozen in wait for some sign of movement.
Then he saw it. Across the street between two houses, a man dressed in black stood out in stark contrast against the wintry backdrop. The dark clothing would’ve aided him last night, but in the daylight, it only helped Cole.
He bolted toward the shooter, weaving in and out of cover while refraining from squeezing the trigger until he had a clear shot.
Then he fired. Missed the target. The man spun around the corner of the house while blindly shooting back, forcing Cole to wait behind a car for breathless seconds until the thug stopped spraying lead.
A moment of silence. Then Cole gave chase.
The gunfight moved through the quiet neighborhood. Bullets pelleted cars and shattered house windows. He didn’t aim at homes, conscious of civilian casualties. But his adversary didn’t give a fuck. The bastard ran down the street, heedlessly swinging the gun behind him and shooting everything in a vicious sweep.
Somewhere in the distance, Christmas music played. A car horn honked. Stomping footsteps rang out—the shooter’s, Cole’s, and others in the periphery, stampeding in the opposite direction.
He chased the man for blocks, jumping fences, crossing icy yards, dodging passing cars, and racing down busy avenues. Meanwhile, Dublin 22 stirred to life. And several streets away, the blare of sirens erupted.
The gardai were coming.
Given the fast approach of the sirens, he had thirty seconds tops.
Up ahead, the shooter ran into a wide intersection. Cole trailed him, twenty feet behind. The man abruptly stopped at the center and pivoted, weapon raised.
Cole halted in the street with no nearby cars or trees to take cover. With no choice but to engage in this standoff, he trained his pistol with both hands and met the man’s eyes.
Timing was everything.
“I don’t want to shoot…” He squeezed the trigger mid-sentence.
His gun clicked dry. Empty.
Oh, fucking fuck.
The shooter tipped his head, and a cold-blooded smirk twisted his lips. He held his gun out one-handed and took a cocky step forward, aimed to kill.
Cole knew his next breath would be his last, and as he drew it into his lungs, the squeal of tires sounded. A motor revved, and a speeding car flew into the intersection and slammed into the gunman. The impact hit him like a freight train, bending him in half. The wrong way.