Gillian kept shooting as she moved sideways toward the garage corner, but leaving the cover of the car like that was suicide. So she paused and took a deep breath. She should be grateful the sons of bitches had stolen such an all-American car, which stopped the bullets like the best shield. She counted to three, stepped away from the car and shot one of the men in the chest. Another shot came from around the garage corner and the last man fell down, just when SWAT burst out of the kitchen.
Gillian ran around the corner, afraid of what she might found.
Brock was still standing only because of the wall at his back, his left arm tight to his side and across his belly. Eyes shut, his face contracted in pain, his other hand loose around the Glock.
"I'm fine..." he breathed when Gillian hurried to him, and she saw the bullet smashed against the Kevlar. Had he not been wearing it, the bullet would've pierced right through his heart.
She saw him stagger and tried to hold him up, but he stepped back from her, clenching his teeth. "Jimmy...?"
"Safe," she said, still trying to swallow her heart. Stupid man, he'd been shot for covering her!
Brock holstered his gun, breathing slowly in order to ease the burning pressure that crushed his chest. He knew it was his fault, but he just couldn't help it: the man was shooting at Gillian and Jimmy, and stepping out like that was the only way to stop him.
Fred and Hank ran to them.
"Reg!"
"You guys okay?"
Out of instinct, Gillian spun around to stop them from getting closer to Brock. "Yeah, we're fine, we just need a minute here," she said, her voice as firm as if her knees weren't shaking at all.
"He okay?" insisted Hank, glancing past her. "Didn't they shoot'im?"
"The plate took it. Go now, we'll be right out."
Fred gave her a quick nod, patting Hank to take him back to the house. That was one of the many good things about Fred: she never needed to explain things to him. On their way to the backdoor, they paused by the dead men in the backyard and Gillian heard their comments over the radio.
"Right to the heart, this was Reg," said Fred.
"Between the eyes, like the guy inside," said Hank. "Beware of Brockner, man."
Fred agreed as they walked in. "Hell of a shot."
Gillian went back to Brock, who shook his head. "Good shot, lousy duck," he grunted.
He heard Gillian's snort and straightened up, opening his eyes, only to gift her with a warning scowl when she tried to hold him up once more.
"I'm fine," he repeated.
"Sure," she growled, rolling her eyes again. Damned John Wayne complex! Because accepting her help would surely hurt more than a frigging bullet to his chest, right?
On the street, many neighbors were up and out, and uniforms kept them away. Ron was already in an ambulance with Jimmy, on his way to Winthrop to take the boy to his grandmother. Hank talked to the SWAT team leader Thompson. Inside the house, Banks and Taylor found the owners tied and gagged, stuffed in a closet, so Fred directed the EMTs from a second ambulance to them.
When Gillian and Brock reached the lawn, she glanced at the ambulance and then at him. He shook his head, scowling.
"The hospital then, Agent Brockner."
"Would you go to the hospital for a bullet in your vest?" he replied, still grunting through clenched teeth to keep the pain at bay.
Bull's eye, she couldn't argue that.
"My car is at the field office..."
Gillian shot a legit death glare up at him. Brock sighed and looked away, nodding. Yet his mood openly stated he was far from okay about so much fuss after him. Such a pity. She couldn't care less.