Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
"Faith Donovan," I mutter aloud, liking the shape of her name on my lips.
Not for the first time, I find myself wondering who she is and where she came from. With wavy black hair, stricken honey-brown eyes, and the face of an angel, she damn sure didn't belong in the heart of Nikolai Tarasova's territory, witness to a mass shooting.
I worked in Missing Persons for years before I moved to Robbery and Homicide, and I've seen a lot of awful shit. But never have I seen anything like what happened last night. Seven people are now dead, and six more seriously injured. Yet Faith stood in the middle of the chaos like an angel of mercy, covered in the blood of a girl she knew nothing about.
I shouldn't have asked for her help, but no one else on scene was willing to speak for the victims. She was brave as hell…and terrified out of her mind. Fear swam in those wide honey-colored eyes, making it clear she knew what she risked by speaking to me, but she did it anyway.
I intend to make sure she's safe before I get back to work trying to sort out the mess the Amato Family left behind.
It's the least I owe her.
That's not why my mind keeps drifting back to her, however. She's fucking stunning. The whole goddamn time I was beside her, my cock was hard and aching. I want her…want to know if that voice is as sweet crying out my name as it is when she's speaking. Would she whimper and beg for release? Or would she fight me for it? I'm an asshole for even thinking about it…but I've been thinking about it anyway.
The glass front of the hospital is awash in a sea of color, the glass spire and cross jutting proudly into the air. Despite the early hour, the hospital is a flurry of activity.
I pull up beside an ambulance in the bay and duck inside.
Doctors and nurses rush down the wide corridor, their expressions tense and strained. Call lights buzz up and down the hallway as those waiting for treatment grow impatient. Half of the shooting victims were brought here last night, creating more work than the hospital has the resources to cover…but I doubt telling sick patients that the holdup isn't the staff's fault has gotten them far.
A cleaning crew is hard at work stripping one of the trauma rooms as I stroll past. Bloody bedding and equipment get loaded into biohazard bags and set to the side, waiting to be carted off for cleaning. I clench my jaw at the sight, tamping down the swell of anger threatening to rise to the surface. The city lost more than Bratva and cartel members to their senseless war last night.
Unless I miss my guess, that was the room of Kira Grishin, the girl Faith Donovan tried to save. The girl barely made it to the hospital alive. She died on the operating table a little over an hour ago.
I don't relish sharing that news with Faith.
"Morning, Detective," a nurse mutters as she hurries past.
I lift my hand in a wave, not bothering to ask for directions to Faith's room. Rich Anderson and Sai Patel stand at the far end of the hall in their patrol uniforms, blocking access to the last room on the right. I stride toward them, staying close to the wall to keep out of the way of the staff rushing around.
Rich Anderson reaches out to bump my fist when I stop in front of him.
"How's it going?" I ask.
"A couple Russians tried to get by us a little while ago," he mutters, pitching his voice low so it doesn't carry down the hall. "We sent them on their way again, said no one but family was permitted to enter."
"They were here for her?"
Sai Patel nods, his dark eyes serious. "They weren't happy to find her under police guard, Octavio."
I peek in the partially closed door. Faith is curled up in a ball on the small bed, a thin sheet covering her. All I can make out is the back of her head, her long dark hair tangled on the sheets. I don't even have to look closer to know she isn't sleeping though. Her breathing is too uneven, making it evident that she's faking sleep…and not doing a particularly good job of it either.
Rich looks in at her too and then paces across the hall, crooking a finger for me to follow.
"What's up?" I ask, watching as two nurses rush toward an ambulance pulling into the bay outside.
"You need to talk to her doctor," Rich murmurs, wearing an uneasy frown in place of his usual smile.
I quirk a brow, silently demanding an explanation.
"She's pretty messed up, O," he says.
"Her hands?" The palms of her hands were cut all to hell. She'll have a rough few weeks while they heal, but the cuts weren't life threatening or even serious compared to most of the other victims. The list of injuries other victims sustained is long and gruesome. Gunshot wounds to the neck, chest, stomach…we'll be lucky if another of the victims makes it through the day.