“I patted his chest, tugged up his polo. No blood. I ran my fingers across his face. No wounds. “Nick?” I spoke his name more loudly. “Nick, are you hurt?” My hand slid behind his head. Dampness. I bent near and turned his face. Blood streaked my seeking fingers. Blood oozed from the back of his head. He must have grazed the edge of the wet bar’s foot rail when he tumbled backward. But surely he hadn’t been shot. From the angle of the attack—my eyes flicked toward the window—a bullet would have ...struck him from the front. I lightly touched his throat and felt the steady beat of the carotid artery. I was almost weak with relief. My head jerked up. In a flash I was outside, standing by the window with the broken pane. I was alone. Whoever had stood there, rammed the barrel through, steadied the rifle, and pulled the trigger was long gone. I pressed my lips together. I’d foiled the attack, but the attacker was at large. The police must be summoned and Nick’s injury treated.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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