* * *
Joaquin leftSpeer heading north toward his street. He couldn’t wait to see Mia and leave the workday behind. Apart from the I-Team meeting, it hadn’t been a badday.
Police had found the stolen service dog, and Joaquin had been on hand with his camera to capture the owner’s relief and happiness when he and his dog had been reunited. The two nonagenarians had challenged Joaquin to an arm-wrestling match and had come close to beating him, the laughter on their faces afterward caught on camera. Joaquin hoped he was as fit as those two when he hitninety.
The shoot with the widow and her new baby had been just as tough as he’d thought it would be. When she’d heard he was from theDenver Independentand had been at the Palace Hotel that terrible night, she’d burst into tears. Joaquin had stayed with her, listened to her talk about her husband, and thanked her as one of the people her husband had tried to protect. The photo of her holding her little daughter next to a photograph of her husband had put a lump in histhroat.
He turned onto his street and flipped on the signal to turn into his parking garage—then slammed on the brakes as a man ran out of the garage right in front ofhim.
A man in a black hoodie, pistol inhand.
The bastard raised the weapon, fired on the run, shattering Joaquin’s windshield. Joaquin reflexively turned his face to shield his eyes. By the time he looked again, the man was running down the street. Joaquin let him go, only one thought on hismind.
Mia.
Heart slamming, he gunned it into the garage, his gaze catching Mia’s Mazda in the guest parking spot. Then he saw it—the security door to the elevators. It wasshattered.
Madre de Dios,Mia.
He jerked his truck to a stop next to a wall of shattered glass, grabbed his phone and leaped out, dialing 911, knowing he was going to find Mia there, badly wounded, maybe dying, maybe alreadydead.
Jesus,no.
He rounded his vehicle to find… noone.
Relief left him almost legless. Somehow, he gave his address to the dispatcher, his gaze raking over the devastation. Shards of glass everywhere. Indentations from bullets in the steel elevator doors. Scattered shell casings from a 9 mm and a .45caliber.
The bastard had cornered Mia here, but she had firedback.
Had she beenhit?
There was no blood spray on the walls. Then, there on the tile floor, he sawit.
Blood.
Fuck.
Mia!
He punched the button, realized the dispatcher was asking him questions. “There’s been a shooting with injuries. We need an ambulance. The shooter is running south on Walnut in a black hoodie. He had pistol in hand. The injured party is inside the building. I’m trying to findher.”
“We’ve got her on the line,sir.”
ThankGod.
“We’ve toned out SWAT and anambulance.”
Joaquin could hear the sirens now. “Tell her I’m on my way up.Thanks.”
He ended the call. If they were talking to Mia, they didn’t need him. He sent a text to Mia, trying to keep to the essentials as bystanders began togather.
“Whathappened?”
“Was someoneshot?”
“Don’t touch anything,” Joaquin told them. “This is a crimescene.”
Saw shooter. He’s gone. Are you badlyhurt?