How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
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Mendocino went inside, setting his phone and gun back on the desk, studying the crime scene photographs on his laptop. Zooming in on Watson's body and his wounds before they were cleaned and measured, it became clear. He was in an upright position when his throat was slashed. It was in the blood flow. The killer propped his body up, reached around from behind, and sliced his throat with a blade, strong and sharp enough to sever everything except the spinal column. Blood drained onto his chest and thighs. He bled out faster sitting up, speeding up the kill. Then his body was lowered to the floor to finish bleeding out, while the abdomen was slashed.
Had he been prone when his throat was cut, most of his blood would have drained across the floor. His chest and thighs would not have been soaked in it.
Chirp-Chirp-Chirp! The surveillance app again. It was going to be a pain in the ass. He glanced at the clock. Almost noon. Amos. He'd have to get used to it. No. No one was coming up the driveway. The alert came from the entrance to Tillie's studio. Someone was in there.
She said no guns. Don't be over-protective.
Mendocino checked the surveillance video stream again for each station. No vehicle. No motion detector alarm alerted on the driveway. His scalp tingled. He snatched the Glock, racing through the house, across the porch, and slamming through the screened door.
Tilliescreamed. "Mendo—!"
Sprinting across the yard, driveway, and through the small lobby, Mendocino burst into the studio, his weapon drawn. She was on the floor. A man, wearing a plastic poncho knelt at her side. The man rose, turning, knife in hand, as Mendocino fired.
The first round struck the base of the man's right hand, blowing away his thumb and part of his wrist. The knife thudded onto the floor. The second bullet hit Tillie's attacker mid-chest. He crashed to the floor, blood spurting from his wrist. The artery was severed. Blood pulsed from his chest and back, too.
The small room wreaked of gunpowder, thick with smoke. Choking, coughing in the acrid air the man screamed like a wounded panther, trying to grip his almost-severed hand. Mendocino pounced, instinctively pulling the man's good arm behind his back, as he'd done so many times handcuffing suspects. But he had no handcuffs.
The severed wrist sprayed blood over both of them. Quickly, Mendocino flipped the man onto his back and removed his own belt, cinching it tight above the man's elbow. Don't die.
The suspect fell silent, all color was gone from his creviced face. He wouldn't live long enough for an ambulance.
"Leave him to me!" Amos came through the doorway, gun drawn. Holstering his weapon, Amos took the makeshift tourniquet from Mendocino. "Take care of Tillie. I've got this."
Soaked in the suspect's blood, Mendocino crossed the room. Blood pooled on the floor beneath Tillie's head. Mendocino lifted her, cradling her against his chest, carrying her into the lobby, sitting on the love seat, holding her upright in his lap, her head against his chest. "Tillie, wake up. Wake up." He patted her face.
