My stomach plummets. I feel for the semiautomatic I usually wear at all times, but I left it in the house, on the desk.
I only have a split second to pull Corrie down, to cover my body with hers, before the shots ring out.
A line of shots sprays over us. I can’t do anything but cover her and wait for the car to drive away. Or to kill us both. Beneath me, she’s screaming, fighting to get away, but I can’t let her go. I can’t risk her safety.
I hold her, wishing I had magic words to calm her, but she’s writhing and wiggling. My arms tighten around her as more shots come toward us.
Then, searing pain pierces my side and I can’t breathe. Can’t move.
His body is limp. Deadweight on top of me. But the shooting’s stopped and the car it came from is screeching away. At least there’s that.
I
