It happened too fast, too far away for them to do anything, but even with the cook’s back to him, Kane knew the blade slid in and cut deep. The Hispanic man’s spine stiffened, and his shoulders suddenly went slack. His hands clawed at the young man’s jacket, crumpling the khaki-green material as he hooked his fingers into the fabric. With the bloody knife still clenched tight in his fist, the slender man shoved against the cook’s body hard, sending him to his knees.
Gasping, the cook went down on his knees, trying to keep a hold on the man who’d stabbed him, but as the blood poured out of his side, his muscles went slack and he fell, slamming into the concrete slab. His head bounced with a sickening thud, and the sliced apart tie of his apron flew up, exposing his gaping wound. The white T-shirt he wore beneath was soaked through, and the rent in the fabric parted under the gush of an intestinal coil escaping his sliced-open abdominal wall.
By the time Kane reached the cook, his quarry had been swallowed up by the shadows.
There wasn’t a question of what he’d do. Despite being so close to catching the man terrorizing Miki, Kane kneeled down and pressed in on the cook’s wound. The man’s hand trembled as he reached for Kane, and blood dripped from his palm, dribbling down his arm.
“Está bien. Yo soy un policía.” Kane struggled with his broken Spanish, trying to say something that made sense from the lessons he’d had drummed into his head. Applying pressure on the gut wound, he murmured, “La ayuda está en camino.”
“I’ve called it in.” Browne bent over and clasped his knees, panting to catch his breath. “Medics were on the scene for the body. They’re bringing the bus around for him. Hold on.”
“I’m holding,” Kane muttered. “Hey, stay with me, sir.”
The man mumbled something too rapid for Kane to catch, but his grip on Kane’s wrist was bruising. What seemed like an eternity later, the tight alleyway lit up with red lights, and a blue-uniformed paramedic squatted next to Kane’s legs. Other men came rushing out of the back door of the restaurant, peppering the air with a multilingual confusion. An older man with hang-dog features slammed the door behind him and hurried over to where Kane and the cook were. The paramedic gave the man a nod and made a motion for him to keep back.
“Mi hermano,” the older man asserted, motioning to the cook, then to himself. “This is my brother. I won’t leave him.”
“No, you can stay. Just stay out of the way, please, sir.” The blond EMT smiled down at the cook. “Hey, how are you doing? ?Prefieres que hable en espa?ol?”
The cook nodded, and the blond man fired off a rapid string of Spanish Kane couldn’t understand, but whatever he said eased the tension in the man’s face. Browne moved to the side as the other paramedic, a brawny black man whose arms strained at the seams of his sleeves, wheeled a gurney over and set down a body board next to the cook. The blond placed his hands over Kane’s and pressed down, counting to three before instructing Kane to pull away. They swapped places, and the cook groaned loudly, rolling his head to the side.
“Intestine’s intact. No sign of perforation or seepage,” the blond rattled off to his partner. “Abdominal wall open, but organs appear to be uncompromised. I think we can roll him without too much trouble.”
“Good. Let’s do a roll and get him on the board,” the other paramedic instructed. “We’ll get his vitals, then move him up onto the truck. On the count of three.”
Kane stepped back, giving the paramedics room to work. The restaurant workers were hustled back inside into the restaurant, but the older man lingered, refusing to leave the cook’s side. After a small discussion, he was persuaded to follow the ambulance in his own car. Once on the gurney, the cook patted the man’s hand, murmuring reassuring sounds.
A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a Morgan scowl stepped around the uniforms cordoning off the area. Kane knew from experience that the frown plastered over his friendly features could be wiped away with a well-timed joke or even, if necessary, a few jabs to a ticklish spot under his armpit. While both were highly unprofessional while on the job, as an older brother, Kane still contemplated it. Especially after Inspector Riley Morgan stomped up to Kane and stuck a sharp index finger into Kane’s chest.
“What the hell are you doing at my scene?” Riley growled. Although few inches shorter than his brother, Riley still tried to edge his brother back with a push of his palm on Kane’s shoulder. “And what the hell are you doing back here? Trying to get everyone around you killed? Bad enough I’ve got Kiki and Dad breathing down my neck. I’ve got to worry about you too?”
“Easy there, Junior,” Browne chuckled. “The case belongs to your brother. It’s connected to something he’s on. While you’re standing there, see if you can’t find an evidence bag. Looks like your suspect dropped his sticker over here, Morgan. If I can get your baby brother there moving, we might be able to get something off of it.”