All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

“Come on!” I yelled at her.

The sirens terrified me, because the men chasing us could also call for backup. I could have been a rogue marshal who drew down on them. I could be trying to kidnap Nina. The scenarios were endless, and so because of that, I didn’t stop to wave down a police cruiser. We ran on toward Ogden Avenue, gun in one hand, the other pressed to my shoulder. Not that it was helping, there was blood seeping through my fingers.

A car came up fast beside us, and my first thought when Nina screamed was that she’d been hit. But the fact that she was able to run by me, followed by searing, smothering pain in my upper chest, let me know that it was me who took the bullet. It was at the inside of the shoulder joint and above the neckline of the damn vest, on the left side this time.

Time slowed and I was scared for a second, worried that I couldn’t protect her, knowing I was hurt. It was strange, that clarity in the midst of all the adrenaline.

“Are you—”

Her voice, the tremor in it, snapped me back into the moment. “Don’t stop! Run!”

I passed her and she followed me, the two of us running behind a frozen yogurt place, then between two buildings. We lost them because the alley was too narrow for a car and they had to circle back around. Grabbing Nina’s hand, I ran headlong into the street, horns and yelling greeting us as cars came to squealing stops to avoid running us over.

It always looked so easy in movies or on TV. People dodged cars like it was nothing. It was why I normally ended up yelling at the screen. Ian wouldn’t go with me to movies anymore; instead he made me watch them at his place. He said I got too invested in the action and needed to learn to distance myself emotionally. I was working on it.

Nina was amazing. If I had to handpick a civilian to run from armed gunman with, I could not have chosen any better. She listened better than anyone I had ever met.

Safe on the opposite sidewalk, I stumbled forward, my vision blurring for a moment. I was losing too much blood too fast and had to make a change.

“Follow me,” I barked at her after catching sight of a man standing in the doorway of an automotive repair shop.

Charging over to him, Nina staying right with me, I yelled for help.

People always surprised me. Instead of turning tail, running inside and rolling the big bay doors down from the ceiling, he waved at us to hurry. When we got close, he stepped aside so I could run past him, Nina right behind me.

I lost my balance, fell to my knees but twisted sideways, shoving Nina behind me, shielding her between my body and a parked car, my back plastered to her front. I heard her gasp.

“I need to see how bad you’re hit,” she ordered. “Take this off so I can check.”

“Not until I’ve assessed all threats.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said, her breath catching, “but maybe you could hold the gun with one hand and let me take off the coat and then change hands?”

“What?” I was having trouble following her among the dizziness, darkening vision, and sharp, throbbing pain. I really needed to remain conscious.

“Just—let me.”

It was difficult to maintain my focus as she reached around my chest, unzipped my jacket, and pulled at me roughly, divesting me of my ruined piece of outerwear.

“Oh God,” she moaned, her face scrunching up. “You’re really bleeding. This T-shirt is soaked and—I thought this vest was supposed to fucking do something!”

It did, just not everything. It wasn’t body armor.

“Move your arm. I need to check and see if it came out the other side.”

I ended up transferring the gun between hands as she’d suggested.

“Oh Jesus,” she cried, which gave me an even better idea of the amount of fluid she was looking at. “Miro, your collarbone is—and your shoulder, I—you’re losing too much blood!”

The man and five other mechanics crowded in around us even as I held my gun on them.

“It’s okay,” the man who let us in soothed, lifting his hands, turning his head right and then left, jerking it up both times, clearly signaling to the men. The others stepped back before he took a step forward. “You running from the cops?”

“Yes,” Nina cried, her bottom lip quivering. “And they shot him! Twice!”

“Yeah, I see,” he murmured before he reached behind him, pulled a shop towel from his back pocket, and wadded it up. “I’m gonna throw it over to your girl, okay? Don’t shoot me.”

“He’s not going to shoot you!” Nina shouted, her voice rising fast. “He’s a US marshal, for crissakes! He’s trying to save my life!”