Brittany stumbled behind Bryson as he hurried her through the sea of grim-faced police officers standing in and around the hospital. Police cruisers, some with lights still flashing, were angled side-by-side. Radios were crackling with indistinguishable words.
A reporter attempted to intercept her, shoving a microphone in her face, the cameraman angling a close shot.
“Mrs. Wilson! Mrs. Wilson! A brief word please,” the newswoman called.
“Please not now,” Spenser interrupted, placing her hand at the small of Brittany’s back and guiding her forward.
Spenser’s parents had arrived early and Brittany had been at the Thomas house waiting for Trey when Mitchell called. The anticipation of Thanksgiving Day, three days away, had evaporated and Brittany had rushed to the den and flipped on the television.
The standoff would’ve been a moment’s interruption. But the hostage situation at the home of a world-renowned minister warranted full coverage.
Then the gunfire had started and the SWAT teams had advanced. That should’ve ended it. Instead she’d watched in horror when Trey rushed in behind them. How long had she sat there, waiting for him to reappear, cursing him for going inside when he’d been ordered back?
An eternity passed before Brittany saw people fleeing the house, running as if their lives depended on it.
It had. Half the house had blown up. With Trey still inside. She’d seen him go in but she’d never noticed him coming out. She remembered screaming and collapsing to the floor. It wasn’t long before Bryson had arrived to take her to Trey.
His eyes were red-rimmed, his face ashen. Her brother never cried. Never. Trey must’ve been killed.
“No! No! No!” She’d said the word over and over, not stopping until Bryson shook her.
“He was taken by Life Flight, hanging on by a thread.”
Bryson’s voice broke and Brittany pounded on his chest.
“Remember the baby,” he’d admonished, dragging her toward the door with Spenser hot on their heels, grabbing their purses and shoes.
Now, over an hour later, news crews were regrouping outside the hospital. Those already set up raced behind Brittany, while helicopters circled above like vultures on the hunt.
“Sergeant Wilson’s pregnant wife has just arrived,” another reporter droned.
Blocking out the microphones and the cameras, Brittany forged ahead, not knowing if Trey was alive or dead.
The murmurs of the other officers she’d met, offering her prayers and encouragement, reached through her haze as the glass doors slid open.
Inside the hospital, Bryson halted.
Mitchell wrapped one arm around her and the other around Spenser. “He’s in surgery.”
“Where was he shot?” she whispered.
“In the back and the upper torso.” Sniffling then clearing his throat, Mitchell thrust a hand through his hair, his eyes watery and weary.
“I thought bulletproof vests were mandatory,” she said on a sob.
Bryson enfolded her in his arms. “He had on a vest. But there are varying degrees of protection. He had full coverage in the front but he was shot at close range.”
“I can’t lose him,” she said, a hair’s breadth away from hysteria. “We’ve only been married two months. I’m having his baby. He has to be alive to meet his son or daughter.”
“Brittany.” Spenser took Brittany’s face between her hands, her cornflower blue eyes filled with pain. “Trey is strong. He’s not going to let go with you and the baby here for him. He’s a fighter anyway, but he’ll fight harder to survive because of you.” Holding on to Brittany, she looked at her husband. “Mitch, is there a private waiting room we can go to?”
Once they were in the room, Brittany curled up in a comfortable little bucket chair. She didn’t want to talk or have anyone near. She wanted Trey.
“Yes I know,” Bryson murmured in a flat tone, “Trey was always a crack shot. The bastard was dead before he hit the ground.”
Brittany raised her head.
“The perp,” Mitchell answered her unspoken question.
“Why did he go in there?”
Bryson and Mitchell exchanged glances. “He went in search of Destiny.”
Her brother’s grim confession sent chills through Brittany and she sobbed into her hands. “She’s dead too, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” Raw grief infused Mitchell’s one-word response.
“And Karl?”
“Admitted and sedated,” Bryson explained, squeezing her hand.
“S-sedated?”
“His girlfriend of four and a half years and both his bodyguards are dead. His cousin is hanging on to life. Four other officers were critically injured, another dead. HEDs destroyed several rooms in the house and the entire place is a crime scene.”
Her conversation with Destiny seemed an eternity ago when it was only yesterday. Yesterday, when the woman bared her soul to Brittany and warned her not to provoke Karl. Now she was dead.
“He shouldn’t have gone in there.”
“No he shouldn’t have,” Mitchell agreed. “Though if he hadn’t gone in, he wouldn’t have found one of the explosive devices. He alerted everyone to clear out. It took us five minutes to realize he hadn’t come out too.”
He paused, rubbing his eyes. Spenser moved closer to him and he leaned against her belly.
“It was chaos. Utter chaos.”
“Where’s my boy?” A tall, dark-skinned woman wailed as she appeared in the doorway. Her hair was short and almost entirely gray but the resemblance Trey shared with his mother was quite discernible. “Where’s Trey?”
Bryson and Mitchell rose to their feet. Noelle Wilson hugged both of them and greeted Spenser before her gaze settled on Brittany. There was an inherent strength in her new mother-in-law, honed by her losses. They stared at one another and Brittany’s lips trembled. She shrugged, not knowing what to say.
She wasn’t even sure how the woman had arrived so soon after the shooting. Their hometown was a four hour drive and…and…did it matter?
Mrs. Wilson dropped into the chair next to Brittany’s and patted her cheek, swiping her tears away. “My poor baby girl,” she said in a soft, trembling voice.
Baby girl. That’s what Trey had called her since forever and the thought she might never hear him say that to her again was almost too much to bear.
“Mrs. Wilson?” an authoritative male voice inquired.
All eyes turned to Brittany and she realized she was now the Mrs. Wilson who was responsible for making any and all medical decisions.
She stood, her hand going to her belly, wanting to protect the life within her and draw strength from it at the same time. “Yes?”
“Your husband’s in recovery, ma’am. The bullet missed his spinal cord. The vest protected him against penetration from the shot to his torso but the impact broke two ribs and punctured his right lung. He suffered quite a bit of blood loss and some internal bleeding.”
Brittany waited for more, wanting to hear he was out of danger. The surgeon continued in his same taciturn manner.
“He’s in very critical condition. It’ll be a wait-and-see situation for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
Trey still might not make it. The doctor couched the news in a gentler manner but Brittany knew what the man inferred. “May I see him now?”
“He’ll be moved to ICU in about an hour, Mrs. Wilson. As soon as he is, a nurse will inform you.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Brittany stood at the foot of Trey’s hospital bed, staring at the rise and fall of his chest. The monitor measuring his heart rate and blood pressure beeped, the sharp triangles spiking and falling. The ventilator remained in his mouth and the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger measured the levels of oxygen in his blood. An obscene number of IV bags hung from a pole, meeting in the middle and connecting at the catheter in Trey’s hand.
She went to the opposite side so she wouldn’t disturb the equipment, and kissed Trey’s mouth.
“I love you,” she whispered, sliding her fingers over his hair. “Don’t leave me.” The baby moved and Brittany amended her statement. “Us.”
No response. Not a flinch or a flicker. Sucking in a breath, she picked up his hand and kissed the back of it, rubbed her cheek against the roughness of his palm. He had such big, strong hands. They matched his personality, the larger-than-life idealism she’d always pegged on him.
She sniffled, searched her soul for strength. This wasn’t the time to fall apart. This was the time to be Trey’s helpmeet. She’d stay at his side, urge him to fight for his life.
Spying a chair near the window, Brittany marched to it and dragged it to Trey’s side.
You didn’t have to go through this to get out of eating my Thanksgiving meal, you know?”
She laughed through a sob, not knowing what to say, just wanting to talk to him. Until he heard her voice.
Until he came back to her.