What happened next was so fast, it was over before I even realized it had started.

My uncle’s hands were pinned behind his back, his face red from anger, as they pulled out the cuffs to take him into custody. Sean tried to get in between the Special Agent and my uncle. He thrust his chest out and held up his fists like he was ready to clock the Agent.

"Show us the warrant or get out."

"Get back," one of the other Agents said, stepping closer.

"I said, show us the fucking warrant!"

"Your lawyer can see it. Now step the fuck aside," the Agent said, taking out his sidearm and pointing it at Sean.

Why Sean did it, I'll never know, but he knocked the gun back with a chop of his hand.

It must have been his boxer instincts taking over. His ability to think critically and reason his way through life had been damaged by repeated trauma to his pre-frontal cortex, but the deep muscle memory was still there from years of boxing. And it was ready to go.

That was assault of a federal officer and it was all the other Special Agent needed. He was entirely within the law to do what he did.

But my brother was mentally disabled. He was emotionally disabled by his brain injury.

I ran forward, realizing at the last minute that it had all gone so terribly wrong, but before I could get to him, four shots rang out and my brother fell to the floor.

"Oh my fucking God!" my uncle cried out. "Jesus Christ, you shot him!"

"Get the fuck away," I said to the Agent who stood over Sean's body. Then, I knelt, covering Sean's body, trying to keep them from shooting hi

m again. He had fallen face forward. I knew what that meant. He was out.

Maybe even dead.

I rolled him over carefully to check for gunshot wounds, and found three. One in his shoulder, one in his neck, one that appeared to graze his face. By some lucky chance, the wound in his neck must have missed the important veins and arteries, so he wasn't bleeding out. Nevertheless, I grabbed a towel from a table beside the boxing ring and pressed it against the wound. Sean's eyes were half-lidded, but he was unconscious.

"Sean," I said, leaning down to see if he was breathing. He was—barely. I felt for a pulse, thankful for my training in dealing with battlefield wounds. I glanced up and motioned to the far wall, where a first aid kit was kept. " Quick! Call 911 and get the kit!"

One of the Special Agents spoke into his two-way, summoning the EMTs who were already waiting outside. Conor ran to the first aid kit and brought it to me.

"Sean!" my father gasped from the bench where he sat, trying to catch his breath. "Oh, God, Sean…" He struggled up and came to stand beside us, where the FBI Agent still had his weapon drawn.

"For Christ's sake, put down your weapon," I said angrily.

"He struck me," the Agent said, his arm still outstretched, the weapon still in his hand and pointed now at me.

"Put your weapon down," Vicars said, his voice quiet. The Agent finally complied, holstering it and shrugging his shoulders like it wasn't his fault.

In less than a minute, the two EMTs entered the gym, coming over to where I knelt beside Sean. I'd applied pressure to two of his wounds, and had elevated his feet to fight off shock, but Sean looked bad. His skin was pale, his pulse thready.

They assessed him and finally got him on the gurney and took him to the unit idling outside. An FBI Agent went in with him, because even if he was dying, he was still under arrest for assaulting a federal agent.

My uncle ended up in the back of the FBI armored vehicle.

I took my father and Conor to the hospital in my SUV, following behind the ambulance and several FBI cruisers. By the time we arrived at Mass General, they had intubated Sean and put pressure bandages on his legs to prevent shock.

We followed the gurney inside but were stopped at the admitting area in the ER.

"You'll have to register him," the clerk said. My father sat at the desk and answered the questions, providing them with insurance information.

"He shouldn't have resisted," Special Agent Vicars said to me, his voice low. "He struck a federal agent."

"Fuck off," I said.

Tags: S.E. Lund Bad Boy Erotic
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