I snap back to life, nodding quickly, and then move to wrap my arms around Poppet and drag her away. But she must be able to sense the unease in me because the second I touch her, she starts loping around like a startled deer, trying to shrug me off so that she can protect the door. It’s almost like I can hear her thoughts.
Mommy, I think you must be very confused. I’m trying to protect us and you seem to be getting in the way. Please be reasonable.
Just as I’ve managed to get my hands around her collar, the elevator door opens and Dom fluidly falls into a crouch, protecting us with the shield of his muscled body the same way he did when the explosion went off.
“Julio?” he says, the tension in him relaxing a little. But then it hardens again. I feel it. I sense it. “Fuck, you’ve been hit. Jesus Christ. Get in here.”
I look over Dom’s shoulder to see an older man with a shock of gray hair, wearing a driver’s cap and a blazer. He clutches his belly with one hand, the blood spreading through the fabric and dripping to the floor.
“B-boss,” he whispers, stumbling forward.
Dom runs over to him, holstering his gun and catching Julio under his free arm. He carries him into the apartment as I smooth my hands down Poppet’s head, over her ears, whispering to her that everything is okay even if that’s a lie.
“Gabriel gave me a key,” Julio wheezes. “I hope you don’t mind that I used it.”
They’re in the living room now and their voices are getting quieter. Finally, Poppet begins to calm down, nuzzling her head against me and making soft whining noises.
“Was it the Irish?” Dom asks.
“Who else?” Julio wheezes. “Fucking bastards. Animals.”
I take Poppet’s leash from the hook on the wall and secure it to her collar, something I rarely do. I normally prefer to put on her harness but I can’t risk her bolting and getting involved with Dom and Julio.
My heart is racing as I walk into the living room, watching Dom with his suit jacket thrown over the back of a chair and his hands pressed into Julio’s stomach, trying to stop the bleeding.
“What can I do?” I whisper.
Dom glances at me, face tight, sweat beading his forehead. “Take my cellphone from my suit jacket pocket and call the number marked Groceries. Tell them we need extraction from Gabriel’s apartment. Tell them to use the helipad. My passcode is zero-eight-one-four-nine-zero.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling like I’m in some sort of distorted reality as I walk across the room and do as he says.
I sit down in a chair and cradle Poppet with my free hand, bringing the cellphone to my ear.
It rings twice and then a neutral voice says, “Yes?”
I tell them everything in a rush, surprised that my voice comes out somewhat calm and not as terrified as I feel. My hands are shaking and my body is coated in layers and layers of sweat, so much sweat I feel like I’m drowning.
My body is still sore and prickly from the closeness in the bedroom, and I can’t help but think that life is pretty freaking unfair, throwing this at us on the heels of what just happened.
“Ten minutes, they said,” I murmur, placing the phone on the armrest after the call. “They said they’re bringing medical care, too.”
“Good,” Dom mutters. “Get me some clean towels, please.”
I lead Poppet into the kitchen – she comes peacefully, sensing that her role isn’t to bark and make mayhem – and return with a bunch of towels. Dom grabs them and places them against Julio’s stomach, kneeling down and applying pressure.
“You’re alright,” he says.
Julio grins tightly, his face even sweatier than Dom’s or mine. It’s utterly coated. “There’s an art to cornering, boss,” he says in a faraway voice. “Did you know that? When I was interviewing for the job as your driver, I practiced driving around corners as smoothly as I could. Must’ve done the same damn corner at least a hundred times.”
“It shows,” Dom says. “You’re an excellent driver, Julio. Now just hold on, okay? If you die, I’ll be forced to hire some asshole who doesn’t know the art of cornering, eh?”
Julio laughs, making a guttural noise that doesn’t sound good at all.
“Alright, boss,” he wheezes. “If you say so.”
“Pack a bag, Dallas,” Dom says, glancing at me briefly, eyes ablaze.
“Why?”
“Because you’re coming with us.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe,” he growls. “Pack a bag, not clothes. Just the sentimental shit you can’t leave behind. You’ll be supplied with everything else you need.”
“This is crazy,” I murmur.
“Yes,” Dom says, “it is. But it’s happening. Hurry up.”
Okay, bossy, I almost say, reverting to sassy bantering. But of course, the presence of a swiftly-bleeding-out Julio would make that more than inappropriate.
I stand up and lead a compliant Poppet down the hallway to my bedroom. I grab my suitcase from under the bed and shove my laptop and the first-edition set into it, and then a few photos of me and Mom, and one early photo of all three of us, me and Mom and Dad, before they split up and Mom took me to California. I pack a few toys for Poppet and then stand at the door, anxiety swarming me.
I might’ve only lived here for a few weeks – I might’ve not even unpacked – but this place is my home and leaving it for who-knows-what fills me with unease.
The shooting has stopped from downstairs. That’s something.
Then, from above, the air starts to whirl and roar like a hurricane is descending on the building.
Poppet barks and leaps around as I try to get her into the harness. In the end, I have to grab her collar and force her into it, as she whimpers and whines with her tail between her legs.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, stroking her behind the ears, bringing my face close to her ears and speaking
