Bound by Deception
“Grab the door,” Rio said in a calm voice, his gaze flickering toward her.
“Sure.” Becca grimaced at the faintness of her voice, wishing she sounded as calm and casual as he did. But then he was probably used to being shot at—first as a Navy SEAL, then a police officer and now a detective.
Good God, his career choices practically begged for late afternoon shootouts, followed by cruising speeds of over a hundred miles an hour.
“Becca—” He shot another quick glance at the yawning abyss along her right side.
“I know. I know. The door!” She blew out an aggravated breath.
She anchored herself in place by grabbing the edge of the seat. Without looking down at the endless ribbon of black whistling below her, she leaned outside the cruiser far enough to grab the door handle. The agony pulsing across her shoulder escalated to knife jabs and volcanic lava as she struggled to pull the door toward her. When it finally clicked into place, she groaned in relief and collapsed into her seat.
Sweaty and shaky, she looked down at her right shoulder. Had the door’s impact broken a bone? Was that why it hurt so bad?
Queasy joined sweaty and shaky when she caught sight of the moist, red fabric of her blouse. Fabric that used to be white. Her gaze dropped to her right hand and the crimson beads that dripped steadily to the floor.
A broken shoulder or arm wouldn’t bleed. Would they?
She scanned her left side again. Nothing looked bent, or broken, or out of whack. It just looked bloody. Maybe the edge of the door had sliced her skin…but she didn’t see a rip in the fabric of her blouse.
High on her shoulder, though, just below the fleshy, curve, she found a blood-soaked, frayed hole in the fabric. A bullet sized hole.
Bullet wounds bled like the dickens. She knew that from the movies.