"Ambulance is right behind us," the cop explained.
"He gets the first one," Faith demanded, looking up at the cop.
"This man is a..." the cop started to say, jerking his head toward Max, "an FBI agent. That there is a two-bit criminal."
"You mother fuck..." Faith shrieked, shooting up to her feet.
Daniel shot up too, snagging her around the waist before she did or said something to get herself arrested as the people in the bar were ushered up and into a corner as the cops made way for the gurney as it rolled through the doors.
"Take him," Max insisted, voice weak too. But Anthony was passed out. And judging by the slow rise and fall of his chest, he was failing fast.
The medics moved toward Anthony and Daniel had to drag Faith away so they could load him up and take him away.
To his complete surprise, the second Anthony was out the door and a second gurney rolled in for Max, she turned into Daniel's chest and let out a loud sob.
"Okay, it's okay, baby," he murmured as his arms went around her, one low at her hips, the other across her shoulders, smearing blood all over her and neither of them seemed to notice or care.
"He was bleeding out," she insisted, hands going up and digging into the front of his shirt as he felt some of her tears wet through the material.
"He was still breathing," Daniel said, voice calm as his eyes caught Max's as he was wheeled out. His friend gave him a small smile as he rested back against the propped-up back, knowing he was in good hands.
"Shots to the stomach are bad."
She wasn't wrong. There were rules about getting shot. Best places if you wanted to survive- arms, under the clavicle, in the meat of the upper thigh. Worst places to get shot if you want to survive- head, lungs, and stomach. You'd think heart, but many lived through a GSW to the heart if caught fast enough. Head, for obvious reasons. Lungs as well. The stomach meant if you didn't get to a trauma center in under fifteen minutes, you were dead. Dead. And it was an excruciating death as the stomach enzymes exploded into the body.
"Faith, it's been five minutes tops since he got shot. We're two minutes from the trauma center. They are going to take him right into surgery." He had a feeling she needed the cold, hard facts, not comfort. He wasn't going to say that they were going to fix him. There was no guarantee of that. But, when it came to a bullet to the gut, the City was one of the best places to have it happen, given how close you were to a hospital at any given moment. It wasn't like in the country where, even by ambulance, it took ten or fifteen minutes and you died in agony on the ride with no loved ones with you.
"Special Agent Harrison," an authoritative voice said behind Faith's shoulder, making her stiffen.
But his arms tightened around her, prevented her from pulling away. "Not now," he growled at the detective standing there, looking downright giddy at the idea of having a bust like a mafia family to his name.
"I understand your partner was just..."
"I said not fucking now. You got a problem with that, bring it up with my supervisor. We were out front when the shooting happened. We didn't see shit. Talk to someone who saw something," he demanded, jerking his chin toward the people crowded toward the front of the bar.
The detective, though, was on a mission. "Your weapon is accounted for. As was the perps. Whose Desert Eagle is that on the floor then?" he was smirking a little, like he was pleased at the idea of pinning the gun on Faith and maybe, if he directed his investigation carefully enough, take down a dirty FBI agent.
The fact that Daniel wasn't dirty didn't matter to a power hungry sonofabitch like the good detective.
"That would be mine," Faith snapped, yanking against his hold and turning to face the delighted detective. "I didn't shoot it. Which I'm sure you'll find when you have the lab guys look at it," she said as a cop bagged the gun in question. "If you thought you were maybe going to be able to arrest me for it, you're just shit out of luck, detective. I have a concealed carry permit and the gun is registered."
Well, he'd be goddamned.
He totally had her underestimated.
Really, it actually made more sense that she was licensed and the gun was registered. Especially if it was one she kept at the bar. A bar that was routinely the focus of many an investigation.
"I'll need to see that license and the registration, Miss..."
"Costa," she supplied, shrugging casually, slipping her mask back on. Everything about her was cool, calm, collected. Like she routinely saw people nearly bleed out from gunshot wounds and then got questioned by the cops. "It's behind the bar," she supplied, lifting her chin as she moved behind the bar to get it for him.