his weapon out of his holster and, without hesitating, used a front kick to drive the heel of his boot into the door. Wood splintered as his target took the impact. His heart raced. He had no idea what had happened, but he knew he had to get inside.
“Madison!” He shouted for her, then automatically prepared himself for a second kick to the side of the keyhole, the weakest part of the door. Then a third time. His mind raced with a dozen explanations for what was happening inside. None of them were good. He aimed one more powerful kick and the door made a loud buckling noise as it broke open. Something was definitely wrong. If she was able to come to the door, she would have already been there.
He ran into the house, shouting her name. A feeling of dread swept over him. The living room was to his right. A hallway to his left. The kitchen straight ahead . . . Where was she?
He ran around the kitchen island, gun held steady as he worked to clear the area. She lay on the floor in a pool of blood, a scarlet stain on her abdomen spilled onto the cream-colored tiles. Her gun was on the counter, and the back door had been flung open. Seconds slowed as he ran across the tiled flooring. What had just happened? Someone had been here. Someone had shot her. Had she known the person? Let her guard down? Or had she been taken by surprise?
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, automatically dialing 911. He turned it on speaker as he set it on the floor next to him, crouching at her side.
“Madison, can you hear me? Talk to me. Please.”
He ripped off his hoodie and pressed it against her skin where a bullet had slammed through her side. He felt her wrist. No pulse.
“911. What’s the location of your emergency?”
Jonas worked to pull up her address from memory, then gave it to the woman.
“I need an ambulance. My partner’s been shot.”
“What is your name, sir?”
“Jonas Quinn.” He cupped her face. “Madison . . . Madison, I need you to wake up.”
“Jonas”—the 911 operator was talking to him—“is she breathing?”
“I don’t think so.” He leaned closer to her face, praying that he could feel her breath against his cheek. Nothing. “No. She’s not breathing.”
“I have police and ambulance on their way now. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Can you find something to put pressure against the wound to stop the bleeding?”
“I’ve already done that.”
His mind raced. She couldn’t be dead. He’d just seen her a few hours ago. They’d survived a plane crash together. Managed to track down a convicted felon and survived the last week with barely more than a scratch. And now she was going to die on her kitchen floor? It didn’t make sense.
“Jonas, do you know CPR?”
“Yes, I’m a US Marshal.” He drew in a breath, forcing himself to keep a clear head. “I’m starting it now.”
Still no breathing; no pulse.
He started the compressions, his mind automatically reverting to his training. Thirty chest compressions. Open the airway. Two rescue breaths.
“Come on, Madison.” He resumed the compressions. “I need you to wake up and breathe.”
He kept up with the chest compressions, then once again pressed his lips against hers in order to breathe for her. He’d thought about kissing her. Wondered how she’d react if he told her he was interested in her. And now . . . if he lost her . . .
She gasped for a breath like a guppy out of water.
His heart raced as he reached for her wrist and found a pulse. Weak, but steady. “Madison . . . Madison, can you hear me?”
Her eyes fluttered open and she groaned.
“Madison, you’re going to be okay. I just need you to hang in there. You’ve been shot, but an ambulance is on the way.”
He pressed his sweatshirt firm against the gunshot wound. Where was the ambulance?
She tried to move, then winced in pain.
“Don’t move.”
“I need to go.”
“You need to stay right where you are and don’t move.” He focused now on putting pressure on the wound. He wasn’t going to let her bleed out on her kitchen floor.
Sirens whirred in the distance.
He let out a whoosh of air, but then an icy thought brought him back to the moment as something caught his eye. A black rose sat on the tile beside Madison. Someone else had been in this house, and that someone had shot her.