Baltimore 03 - Did You Miss Me?

She tried to breathe, but her lungs weren’t working.
    Get up . Get away . Daphne struggled to open her eyes, flinching at the loud noise. More gunfire. Screams. She’s shooting people . Fucking hell .
    She pushed herself to her elbows and looked around, blinking. People, running away. People on the ground, not moving. She’s shooting people . Somebody stop her .
    Daphne watched Stevie run toward her, the movement almost slow motion, then another shot cracked the air and Stevie was down, her hands gripping her thigh. There was blood. Lots of blood. Where was JD? Grayson? Don’t be dead .
    Daphne rolled to one side, her lungs starting to function again. Kevlar , she remembered. The vest she’d complained about wearing. She blinked hard. Oh God . Next to her lay Radcliffe’s cameraman, his white shirt now crimson.
    Fear rose up to choke her. Not now . Glancing around frantically, she saw the cameraman’s bag. It was heavy. It would have to do. She rolled farther, edging her fingers forward until they closed against the bag’s strap.
    ‘Stop,’ Marina barked. ‘Put it down, now.’
    Daphne froze, then realized the girl wasn’t talking to her. She lifted her eyes, and her heart stopped. Grayson . He stood five feet away, the gun in his hand pointed at Marina. The laser sight of Marina’s gun was centered on his forehead.
    Daphne looked past him. And had to swallow back the bile. He’d taken the gun from a dead cop. How many had Marina killed? Where was JD?
    ‘I said, put it down,’ Marina said furiously. ‘I will shoot you right here and now.’
    ‘No,’ Grayson said. He was pale, but his hand didn’t waver.
    ‘I can drop you before you even pull the trigger,’ Marina boasted.
    This stops . Now . Daphne tightened her fist around the camera bag’s strap, gathered her energy, and flung it as hard as she could.
    It went only about three feet, skittering along the ground. But it was enough. Startled, Marina spun, pulling the trigger, spraying bullets as she turned in an arc.
    Back to me . Nowhere to run . Nowhere to hide .
    And everything happened at once. Gunfire erupted from everywhere as a dark blur flew through the air from her left. A man. It was a man.
    The air was crushed from her lungs again as he landed on top of her, shielding her. Daphne felt the jerk of his body against hers – once, twice. Marina was shooting him.
    No . Daphne tried to shout, but there was no air. She could only stare horrified as he twisted, his arm extended toward Marina in a straight unwavering line, a gun in his hand and grim resolve on his face. A final shot rang out and Marina dropped to the ground.
    And then it was quiet. No gunfire, just the sound of heavy breathing. Some moans. Sobs. A voice shouting for someone to call 911.
    Dazed, Daphne looked up. He hung over her, supporting his weight on his elbows. He was tall, dark, dangerous. And familiar. She blinked, wondering if she was dreaming.
    ‘Joseph?’ she gasped.
    Tuesday, December 3, 11.08 A.M.
    Stunned, Joseph pushed himself to his knees, looking over his shoulder. The woman with the gun was dead. But he’d never pulled the trigger. He looked to his right. Stevie was propped up on one elbow, her arm still extended, the gun slipping from her bloody hand. She’d fired. She fell back and Maynard was suddenly at her side.
    Holstering his gun, Joseph looked down at Daphne and his heart stopped beating. She’d been hit. Bullet holes . There were bullet holes in her coat. He ripped at the buttons and his heart stopped. Her blouse was covered in blood .
    The sight of it flung him back to a different day, a different place. A different woman. Same blood . So much blood . Can’t make it stop .
    ‘Joseph?’ The whisper yanked him back. Daphne stared up at him, her blue eyes wide with confusion and disbelief. His breath shallow and too fast, he stared back.
    Different day , he told himself. Different woman . Different end . Daphne was not going to die. He simply would not allow it.
    ‘You’re going to be okay,’ he told her, his voice somehow steady. But she was bleeding and he needed to make it stop. Grimly he set to working on the tiny buttons of her blouse. Her eyes popping wide in shock, she smacked his hands away.
    ‘I’m not hurt,’ she insisted, huffing out every word on a rasping exhale.
    She’d been hit by at least three bullets, maybe more. He could hear several people on their cell phones with 911. He looked over his shoulder and swore. Where