that they were—had cringed at the sight of the needle, as though they expected it to leap out of their instructors’ hands and impale them.
“You should wait for the paramedics!”
“Needle compression is the only way to release the air. He’s suffocating.” Dev kept his voice flat. Certain. “If I wait for the paramedics, he’ll die.”
“Okay…” She sounded dubious. “But what if you hit the wrong thing?”
“I won’t.” He’d make damn sure of that.
He traced a path from the nipple above the wound, to Tag’s collarbone, found the center dip, dropped his fingers slightly, and positioned the needle. With one firm, steady thrust, he drove the needle in. A few seconds of resistance was followed by a subtle pop. One he felt more than heard. While the rush of escaping air was too low to be heard above the ringing of the fire alarm—within seconds the blueness etching Tag’s lips began to fade and his breathing settled. Still not normal, but closer. The needle had bought them some time.
Devlin relaxed. Thank Christ. He’d positioned the needle perfectly the first time. There was nothing worse than jabbing and jabbing and constantly hitting bone.
“Holy crap,” the woman whispered. “I’d say you know more than enough emergency medical treatment to get by.”
And wasn’t it odd, how he’d heard that? Her voice was low, but pleasing, feminine…
Which was when he realized the alarm had gone silent.
Maybe he could get some answers now. “Did you see what happened?”
“Not all of it. But some. I was getting into my car across the parking lot when I heard something over here.” She nodded at Tag. “He was already down when I looked. Another guy was going through his pockets.”
“Another guy?” Devlin’s voice sharpened. “What did he look like.”
“Tall. Brown hair. I saw your guy and a woman with red hair come out of the motel as I climbed into my car. I wasn’t looking when he got shot though. I looked over after I heard…” she frowned, shaking her head. “…maybe a shout? Anyway, the guy going through his pockets kind of looked like this guy.” She nodded at Tag again. “Same height, same build. Same color of hair. He had a gun.”
Mitch. Motherfucking Mitch. It had to be.
“What about the woman you saw. Where did she go?”
“The shooter took her back into the motel.”
Fury crested, scalded the inside of his skull.
“She went with the shooter?” The question emerged clipped, drenched in rage. God damn her, he’d see her burn for this.
“Well…” She pulled back slightly at his tone, her eyebrows pulling forward. Her voice started off hesitant but firmed. “I don’t think she wanted to. At first it looked like she was going to attack him—the shooter, I mean—while he was hunched over. But he swung around and pointed his gun at her. Then she looked like she was going to help this guy, but the shooter put a gun against your friend’s head. So, she backed up. And yeah.” She nodded firmly. “It looked like he forced her into the building at gunpoint.”
Forced her into the building…
That’s when her words clicked into place. Son of a bitch. Mitch was after Sean’s personal effects. He’d been going through Tag’s pockets looking for either the motel key card or the memory card. He’d taken Tag out so he could force Sarah into the building in order to enter the motel room.
He frowned. Why hadn’t the bastard taken Sarah out too? If he had the keycard, he didn’t need her. The answer came instantly and was so obvious, he scowled. If what Mitch was looking for wasn’t in the room, which it wasn’t, then he’d use Sarah as bait or blackmail to acquire it.
Looked like he owed Tag’s woman an apology.
“He must be a friend of yours?” the woman asked, pointing her chin toward Tag.
Madeline. That was her name. Madeline. It was a pretty name. But that chin of hers looked stubborn. Like she had some strength to her. Some opinions.
He wrenched his gaze away from her face and looked down. Tightness filled his chest, thickened in his throat, turning his voice to a husky rasp. “Yeah. He’s one of mine.”
When an odd look swam across Madeline’s face, he realized how strange that must have sounded to her. But hell, friend didn’t come close to describing it. Neither did brother. Or teammate, or fuck—any of the euphemisms used to describe team bonds.
Taggart simply belonged to him. As did Trammel and Harrison and every damn member of his team. They