Chapter Sixteen

Twisting to peer over his shoulder, Nutsbe found an elderly man seated on the ground just within view. His legs stretched out in front of him. He bent, his hands gripping around his thigh. Blood gushed through his fingers.

"Stay here. Stay down," he ordered. "Beowolf, stay!"

An arterial spurt. If Nutsbe took the time to drag the guy, he'd bleed out before they reached cover.

Nutsbe whipped his go-bag forward, yanking a tourniquet from the front pocket. Holding it between his teeth, Nutsbe rested his weight on his hip and did a side crawl that kept his head as close to the ground as possible, pulling his thighs toward his chest, then lifting and thrusting.

The man turned gray as his blood pressure dropped. Nutsbe pressed him to lie down lest he pass out, adding a concussion to the emergency. With practiced hands, Nutsbe secured the tourniquet above the wound, then tightened it hard until he could see that the blood had stopped flowing.

Looking down to tell the man they needed to move fast, Nutsbe found him out cold. It had to be from the sudden blood loss.

There was nothing that Nutsbe was willing to do about that now.

He scrambled around behind the man, assessing. Five foot ten, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds? He wasn't small, that was for sure. Nutsbe hadn't trained to drag this much weight and didn't want to try it from standing when his head would present a clear target. Nutsbe decided he'd continue his side crawl, a move he had developed from the SEAL combat swimming sidestroke. He could do it with some efficiency, but would it work here?

Nutsbe caught the guy by his shirt collar and made the first pull. They gained mere inches. Putting the back of his hand under the man's nostrils to see if he was breathing, no whisper of air tickled his skin.

Nutsbe saw three choices.

He could risk it and try CPR here.

He could keep dragging and hope for the best.

He could consider the rescue a lost cause, give up, and seek safety.

Nutsbe pressed and dragged again, getting the same limited results.

"Argh!" Olivia yelled. And Nutsbe shot a look her way. She was in a bear crawl with her ass in the air, Beowolf had his mouth around her arm, and he was dragging her toward Nutsbe.

There was a splintering crack that jerked Nutsbe's head up. The rear window of the car beside Olivia's shattered, and then a bullet hit the passenger's side window where she'd been crouched.

Nutsbe's heart gripped.

Crap, that was close.

Nutsbe pressed again, and with gritted teeth and the growl of a powerlifter, he shoved hard into his leg.

With Beowolf's jaw wrapping her arm, Olivia stumbled, unable to stand. With her hands on the ground in front of her, Beowolf forced her along.

As she passed them, another bullet pinged and ricocheted, hitting the man in the leg below the tourniquet.

Shitshow it is, then.

Beowolf pulled Olivia between the cars where Nutsbe had aimed.

"Olivia, stay there. Do not come over here." He pressed again, gaining another few precious inches. "Olivia, did you hear me? Stay put!" Nutsbe yelled, lest she try to come and help.

Beowolf's hot breath was on his neck. Leaning forward, he sniffed the man's hair.

Nutsbe had been silently counting the seconds since he found the guy unconscious. This was it. The time that an average person could hold their breath underwater. After this, the chances of reviving the man—saving his life—drained away.

Beowolf's massive mouth bit at the man's shoulder, grabbing up the fabric of his suit jacket. He pressed into his haunches, and the judge moved.

"Good job, Beowolf. Good job."

Nutsbe watched Beowolf's body shift and tried to time his own pull, so they were in sync. There was a rhythm of pull and scramble.

Moments later, surprisingly, Nutsbe found they were between the cars. One last drag got the guy's feet behind a tire.

"Olivia," Nutsbe shout-whispered over the blare of car alarms. "I need you to keep as much of you as possible under an engine block." When Nutsbe pointed to the car straight behind him in the asymmetric lot, he saw she had her phone in her hand.

How did she have a phone coming out of court? His mind flicked past that thought as he reached out. "Can I have that?" It was more command than question.

"I was going to call 9-1-1," she said, holding the cell phone up to her face to unlock the screen and then stretching it out to him.

Nutsbe quickly tapped out the number for Iniquus communications, put it on speaker, and laid the phone on the man's crotch.

A woman's efficient voice brightened the air. "Iniquus Communications. Identification."

"Nutsbe, Panther Force, Code red. Code red. Code red." Nutsbe maneuvered around until his legs were under the car to his side so that he could be in position to assess the situation. "Track GPS coordinates to Cerberus K9 Beowolf. Over." He scrubbed a knuckle up and down the man's sternum to see if he would revive.

Out cold.

Nutsbe looked over at the puddle and smear of blood and tried to guess how much fluid the man had lost.

"Copy. We have your GPS coordinates placing you beside the federal courthouse. Over."

Nutsbe pressed two fingers to the man's carotid and got nada. "Affirmative. Active shooter. The sniper is on the roof of the parking garage. At my location, we are two males, one female, and one K9 between the cars. Over,"

Nutsbe loosened the guy's tie and tore at his shirt, making the tiny white buttons fly like shrapnel, exposing a pot belly and a torso covered in thick gray hair.

"Sending emergency vehicles to your location. Number of injured? Over."

Nutsbe yanked off his suit coat and tie, quickly folding his shirt sleeves up his arms to the elbow. He measured off the location of the man's xyphoid process, laced his fingers, and positioned the heel of his hand over the man's chest. With the first thrust, he sent an assessing look toward Olivia, who was getting onto her knees, encumbered by the narrow cut of her skirt. "Olivia, were you hit?"

"Me?"

"Check yourself over. Use both your hands. Touch every part of your body. You're looking for a hole or blood."

As Olivia followed Nutsbe's directive, he saw her bloody knees.

"I have a male, mid-sixties, gut shot wound to his left leg. Femoral tourniquet applied. Mark the time." He thrust downward. "Unconscious. Not breathing. I'm applying CPR. Over."

From his phone came rock music timed to the tempo of an effective thrust.

Nutsbe looked over his shoulder. "Olivia." He waited for her to look him in the eye. "Okay?"

"I'm fine." She leaned over the man's head. "This is Judge Greenway," she said with alarm. Shuffling to the side, Olivia positioned a leg on either side of the wheel, her skirt stretched wide. "Should I do mouth-to-mouth?"

"Yeah, good." Nutsbe was breathing hard as he thrust down the required two inches. The sharp stones ground into his knees.

"Actively monitoring. Over," the Iniquus communications officer said.

Beowolf stepped carefully along the far side of the judge, then came to sit to Nutsbe's left. As Nutsbe leaned forward into the compressions, the dog's body would effectively shield Olivia. "Good boy." They caught each other's gaze, and there was no mistake; they were partners in keeping Olivia safe.

Nutsbe had a flicker of hope as the first rescue siren screamed in the distance.

Help was coming.

But with the shooter still aiming at the cars around them, could they all survive the wait?