Page 89 of Jenna's Protector

I nod, my movements feeling slow and clumsy. Together, Walt and I lift Max. A whimper escapes him, protesting the movement, suffering and in pain.

It’s a sound I’ll hear in my nightmares.

We ease Max into the backseat of Walt’s vehicle. I slide in beside Max, cradling his head in my lap while applying pressure to his wound.

The tires squeal as Walt peels away from the curb. The force of it slams me back against the seat. Malia gives Walt directions to a twenty-four-hour emergency vet, then calls ahead to let them know we’re on our way.

We race through the night, the city lights blurring past in a kaleidoscope of color. Max’s labored breathing fills the car, each ragged gasp a ticking clock, a countdown to the unthinkable.

With a shaking hand, I pull out my phone. The screen is smeared with blood, the keypad slick beneath my fingers.

I call my brother.

“What’s up?” Blake’s voice turns sharp, alert.

He knows me.

He knows I wouldn’t call at this hour unless something was very, very wrong.

“I need you.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, hoarse and strained. I’m surprised my phone hasn’t shattered in my white-knuckled grip. “Jenna’s missing. Max has been shot.”

The words feel like glass shards in my throat, jagged and cutting. Saying them out loud makes it real, makes it something I can’t pretend isn’t happening.

“Where are you now?” Blake’s sharp intake of breath crackles across the line.

“I’m with Walt. We’re heading to the emergency vet on Fifth.”

“I’ll rally the team.” There’s steel in his voice, a promise and a vow.

Walt makes good time. Before I know it, the emergency vet looms ahead, a beacon of harsh fluorescent light in the darkness. Walt barely has the car in park before I throw open the door and stumble out with Max in my arms.

“I need help. My dog’s been shot,” I call out as I enter the emergency room.

Vet techs in scrubs rush to meet me, their faces grim andfocused. They have a stretcher, and they load Max onto it with practiced efficiency. When I try to follow, the vet puts out her hand.

“I’m sorry, sir. You can’t go back there.”

I want to argue, to push past her and stay with Max, but I’ll only be in the way. He needs their help more than he needs me right now.

“He’s lost a lot of blood.” I choke on the words and bite back a very unmanly sob.

But dammit.

It’s Max!

“We’ll take care of him, Detective Jackson.” The vet recognizes me, but I barely register her name.

She leaves me standing in the waiting room, hands hanging uselessly by my sides, as she rushes to save Max’s life.

The adrenaline that’s been fueling me ebbs, leaving me feeling hollowed and empty.

Jenna’s absence is a gaping wound in my chest, a physical ache that steals my breath. She should be here, pacing this room with me, worrying about Max, waiting for news.

But she’s not.

She’s gone, taken, and I don’t know how or why or by whom. I don’t know who to worry about more.

Max?