Laughing to myself, I suddenly realize I’m not so stressed anymore. There’s really no need to be.
Life is good.
The afternoon passes in a blur.
After double and triple checking my sums, I hand in the revised budget handouts to Charlie. Dawdling, I take my time walking back to my office. Halfway down the hall, I hear my cell ringing, and just as I approach my door, it stops.
Of course.
Walking into my office with a sigh, I check the display.
Ten missed calls from Twitch.
My brow furrows.
My cell lights up in my hand and chimes my ringtone. Twitch again.
I answer playfully with, “Hey you, are you stalking me?”
The response I get kills my good mood. “Baby, you need to come to the hospital. The one on Macquarie Street. You need to come now.”
My heart slowly begins to race.
My voice sounds weak even to me when I ask, “Are you okay?”
I hear him swallow hard. Then gently, “I’m fine. It’s not me, Lex. It’s the kid.”
He says three words that make the blood drain out of my body.
“Michael’s been shot.”
Heart racing out of my chest, I run through the crowded city street.
I run so fast that my legs go numb. I nudge and push my way through the ocean of people without apology. I shout at people to move out of the way.
I’m panicked.
I’m irritated.
Don’t these people understand I have an emergency? How dare they go about their lives when I feel like mine is crumbling?
I’m worried.
I’m frightened.
More so when I finally make it to the entrance of the hospital. Making a stop by the reception, I quickly ask where the emergency waiting room is. Once the answer is given, I’m off. Running down the halls of a sterile hospital, a million thoughts crash through my head.
What if Mickey’s really hurt? What if he needs special help after this? What if he…
Shaking the crazy thoughts out of my head, I decide to wait to get the details so I know what I’m working with here.
It could be nothing.
I run to the end of the hall and I see Twitch. Panting and sweating, I walk over to him. With his back to me, I ask quietly, “What happened?”
Twitch turns to me. His face blank.
Searching my face a moment, he explains, “The kid wanted to ask his girl out. He told me he would’ve done it if he didn’t have to be at work on time so I made Happy take him, then trail the rest of the day.” Lowering his eyes, he shifts around, leans closer, and whispers, “Happy had to make a few stops. Make a few drops. Secure a few shipments.”
The blood drains out of my face.
“Happy took the kid to ask the girl out, then they went to work. They’d been to three other places with no issues.” Taking a step closer to me, he grips my forearms gently. “Happy knew something was wrong as soon as they got in. Too many men. Too many armed men. They tried to snatch the shipment without payment. Happy played it cool, placing the kid behind him before he drew his weapon.”
He reaches up, taking my chin between his fingers and lifting so we meet eye-to-eye. “My runner got shot up. He died at the scene. Happy took one to the shoulder.” He holds my stare for a few seconds. “Michael took one to the back.”
A sudden intake of breath makes me shudder. I step out of his reach and ask shakily, “Where is he?”
Swallowing hard, he takes a step towards me, “Happy got ‘em out through a storm of bullets. He got him here quickly. He was losing blood…”
Another step back. Shakier, “Where is he?”
“…a lot of blood. They started infusing him as soon as he got in. Happy called ahead so they knew what to expect. They were waiting at the emergency doors…”
Quieter, “I want to see him, Twitch.”
“…the blood loss made him weak and he went into cardiac arrest. They brought him back a few times and he fought, baby, he fought hard, but…”
I whisper weakly, “I want to see my cub.”
His eyes turn sad. “…but he died, Angel. He’s gone.”
My heart stops beating altogether. Gasping, I step away from Twitch, holding out my arms as a warning. Do not come any closer to me. With every breath I take, it still feels like I still have no air left in me. My head spins.
He didn’t just say that.
He couldn’t have.
This is a joke. A stupid prank. I’m being Punk’d.
Don’t cry. You’re being Punk’d.
Chest heaving, I look up into those cold brown eyes. Only now, they’re not so cold. They’re warm, apologetic, and pleading.
That’s when it hits me.
He’s gone.
Michael’s really gone.
“No,” I whisper, lifting a shaking hand to cover my mouth while wrapping the other around myself, holding myself. Comforting myself. Closing my eyes tightly, a soft keening cry escapes me.
My sadness is cut short as anger surges through my veins like molten lava.