“This one’s definitely my favorite,” I prattled on, “but the one where you’re bent over your desk with the Manhattan skyline in the background is a close second. That’s pure art!” I paused for a couple of seconds to let it all sink in. “Now here’s the deal, Nikki, sweetie. Because I’m nice, I haven’t sent these to one of those spring-break-titties websites yet. Ooh! I wonder if there’s a ‘CEOs Gone Wild’ website?”
She made an inarticulate noise, but I pressed right on. “However, because I’m not stupid, I already sent the whole darn package to a buddy of mine—all the pics Pierce took, the pics you sent him, along with the cute sexting you two did back and forth. And I told my buddy that if he didn’t hear from me in fifteen minutes with my super special ‘I’m Okay’ code phrase, he was to spread these lovely gems far and wide on every website and news feed that he could find.”
“You . . . you . . .”
“I know you have some nasty shit planned for us in the garage, you fucking bitch.” My voice was hard and sharp now, all trace of humor gone. “Unless you want to be the laughingstock of the entire goddamn world, I suggest you tell your people to stand the fuck down. Oh, and if anything’s been done to the van, it better get undone. Y’got me?”
Her breath came in short panicked gasps. Seemed I’d found her weak spot. “No one will stop you,” she choked out. “Get out. Get out. Leave my son.”
Pierce tilted his head, smile widening as the sound of scuffling and muted shouts came from beyond the metal door.
“Not until we’re completely clear,” I told her. “Then we’ll let him go.”
“Get out!” Fury and terror resonated in her voice. “Get out. Get out! GET OUT!”
I disconnected while she was in mid shriek. So much for her calm calculating crap. Pierce leaned against the doors, body shaking with silent laughter, despite our predicament.
“I think she wants us to get out,” I said with a grin.
Still chuckling, he eased the door open again, even as a door slammed on the other side of the garage. The air no longer held that sharp edge. “Wait here,” he ordered. Gun in hand, he loped to the cargo van, made a quick circuit around it that I figured was to check for explosives, then jumped up to the loading dock and pulled the van’s rear doors open.
As soon as he gestured to me I shoved the bin his way, and in no time at all we had it loaded up and the doors closed. I stayed in the back while Pierce took the driver’s seat and got the van going.
“We’re out and clear,” he announced less than half a minute later.
“Hot fucking damn,” I breathed. Shifting to my knees, I swung the lid of the bin open. “How’s everyone doing?”
Kyle lifted his head, expression grim, and his hand pressed to Andrew’s belly. “Some worse than . . . others.”
“Hurts,” Andrew gasped, breathing in short sips. “Oh, god.”
“Shit. Help me get him out,” I sai
d before remembering that none of the zombies were at full strength by a long shot. Still, Kyle and Marcus managed to give enough push to help me get Andrew out and lay him down on the van floor without too much jarring. My eyes met Marcus’s, totally relieved to see him moving and aware, but I barely had time for a smile before a choked cry of pain from Andrew pulled my attention.
“Jesus, you’re pale,” I muttered, lifting his shirt to peer at the little bullet wound. Barely any blood surrounded the pea-sized hole, but when I put my hand on his abdomen it was hard.
“I’m dying,” Andrew gasped, fear and pain twisting his features. “Oh, god. Hurts.”
He is dying, I realized with sick dread. “P-Pierce!” I called out, barely catching myself from saying Pietro. “Andrew’s in really bad shape. I think he’s bleeding internally. We need to get him to a hospital!”
Pierce glanced quickly back, cursed. “I’ll call Dr. Nikas.”
“He needs surgery,” I insisted as he dialed. “Like, right now.”
To my dismay, he shook his head. “Even if we could get him to an ER in time, we wouldn’t take him. We can’t.”
“Why the hell not?” I demanded, dismayed. “Can’t we, well, dump him and take off?” I shot Andrew an apologetic look, but he wasn’t exactly paying attention to me.
Pierce’s eyes briefly met mine in the rear view mirror. “Gunshot wounds are investigated, Angel,” he said, regret mingling with firm decision. “We can’t risk any law enforcement involvement.” He lifted the phone to his ear. “You heard?” he said into it. “It’s Andrew Saber, on the verge. Here’s Angel.”
I seized the phone. “Dr. Nikas. Tell me what to do!”
“Angel, send me a picture of the wound and location. Quickly,” Dr. Nikas added. “He is still conscious?”
Hands trembling, I snapped two pics and sent them. “Yeah, he’s conscious, but not by much. Pale, cold, and clammy. He’s starting to lose it.”
“And his abdomen is hard?”