Landry brought his knee up, barely missing O’Donoghue’s junk.
Ignoring the fire shooting through his chest, Lucky lunged and grabbed his Sig. With the two men locked together, he couldn’t get a clear shot. Which one would he shoot?
Hands still wrapped around Landry’s, O’Donoghue turned the gun, an evil grin on his face. A shot rang out.
Landry fell. He lay on his back again, staring at nothing. A red dot trickled blood from his forehead. Oh shit! The mutherfucker shot him! Lucky’s heart pounded. Right… there. Landry was alive one moment, the next?
He lay in a puddle of gore.
O’Donoghue shot his former employee. And Lucky. No remorse. Cold. Calculating.
“Stop. Don’t move.” Bo burst into the room, gun drawn.
Hallelujah! The iron bands around Lucky’s chest loosened.
“Thank God, you’re here,” O’Donoghue exclaimed. “Landry shot Lucky. I had…I had to…”
“You had to cover your ass. Yeah, we know. The camera in this room still works. So does Lucky’s microphone. You got sloppy, you arrogant son of a bitch.” Bo stared the man down, gun aimed and jaw clenched.
Lucky’s earlier backup stepped up beside him. “We’ve got him,” one said.
For a moment Bo didn’t move, nostrils flaring, and pure rage in his eyes.
Did he actually think the bastard killed Lucky? “Bo?”
Bo jumped, then peered beneath the table. “Oh, my God. Lucky? Are you okay? We lost you on the camera feed, and I thought… I thought…” His brown eyes had never looked more beautiful, even filled with tears as they were now.
Lucky winced, but nodded. “Still breathing.”
The “oh shit” expression on O’Donoghue’s face? Priceless.
Bo gave Lucky a quick once-over, brow furrowed, and returned his attention to the matter at hand. “Get his weapon, and search him.”
One of the officers took a step toward O’Donoghue. “Sir, put the gun on the table and back away. Keep your hands visible.”
Yeah, dickhead thought he could get away with shooting Lucky and Landry. Thechinkof metal around O’Donoghue’s wrists when the officer snapped the cuffs on made the sweetest sound. As did O’Donoghue’s grunts and groans during a none-to-gentle search.
Lucky tuned out theyada, yadaof the officer informing O’Donoghue of his rights, as he slowly crawled out from under the table, and took the hand Bo offered. Bo pulled…
“Oh, God!” Lucky let go, clutching his chest. Fire shot through him.
Bo dropped down beside him. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I saw the shot…”
Lucky rapped on his chest. “Vivienne’s gift, remember? I’m not shot, but feels like a mutherfucking mule kicked me.” He owed Vivienne and Elsa dinner for the save. Without them, he’d have never seen Bo again.
“What about all the blood?”
“Trust me. It’s not mine. It’s fake.” Lucky glanced down. One helluva convincing fake.
This time, Bo put an arm around Lucky’s shoulders, easing him to his feet. Lucky rose on shaky legs. He didn’t step away immediately. Right now, he needed Bo’s touch. Collapsing against his man, holding him, seemed the best idea in the world.
With great effort he pulled back. Not the time. Not the place.
Keith barged into the conference room, followed by Cruz and Walter. Lucky spotted a few more uniforms in the hallway.
Walter cleared his throat. Lucky had never seen the man so visibly angry. He clenched both fists, face a dangerous shade of red. “Jameson O’Donoghue. I’ve seen good agents go bad in my time, but never have I seen anyone so thoroughly disgrace the organization and all we stand for.”
O’Donoghue’s father and brother died in the line of duty. Even at his worst Lucky hadn’t done so much to disappoint his family.
Lucky’s phone vibrated. He finally yanked it out of his pocket. Six missed calls. Fourteen texts. Some from Johnson or Bo asking for status, one from Ty: “Mama’s in labor.”