The Warrior. Dinah McCall
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Horace Miles, the bank president, was moving through the crowd, making sure everyone was okay. When he saw the blood on the front and back of John’s shirt, he gasped and yelled for someone to call 911.
John was anxious to be gone before he had to explain why the bullet hole in his chest was already nearly closed. He pulled his knife out of the robber’s chest, then wiped the blood off the blade onto the man’s jacket before slipping it back into the sheath inside his boot.
The bank guard reached John and took him by the elbow.
“You need to sit down, son,” he said. “You’ve been shot.”
“I’m okay,” John said.
“The police are coming!” someone said.
Sirens could be heard in the distance. John sighed. He needed to leave—now. He started toward the door, but Horace Miles cut him off. Like the guard, he took John by the elbow and tried to usher him to a chair.
“Please,” Miles said. “You’re bleeding. Let us help you.”
“I’m all right…really.”
But the bank president would have none of it.
Lisa Doggett came toward him, hugging her little boys to her legs as she stared at him in disbelief.
“You saved my life. You saved all of us,” she whispered. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“Yeah…sure,” he said, then gave in to the inevitable. He was caught now, and there was no way out of it.
The two little boys stared at him—silent now in the face of what they’d witnessed.
“Mama’s okay, boys,” John said softly.
Brandon nodded. “You stopped the bad man,” he said.
John just winked and nodded. The pain in his chest was fading swiftly, but the sirens were also getting closer. Moments later, a half-dozen police cars were on the scene, followed by two ambulances. A paramedic team followed the police inside, then, at the guard’s direction, headed for John.
He sighed. How the hell was he going to explain his way out of this?
“I’m okay,” he said as the paramedics dropped their bags and began to cut off his shirt. “I said…I’m okay,” he repeated, and to prove he was right, he pulled up his shirt, revealing the wound that was almost closed.
Both paramedics rocked back on their heels, staring at John and then at each other.
“Mister…how in—”
“Er…uh…I studied with the Dalai Lama,” John said. “Learned how to control bleeding and heal myself with my mind. Ever hear of it?”
They looked at each other, shrugged, and then began packing up their gear while sneaking curious looks at him.
But they weren’t the only ones staring. The bank president was in shock. He’d seen the bullet pierce John’s chest, seen the blood spurting, yet now the wound was nearly closed. He’d seen the other scars on John’s chest, too, and was staggered by what this man had suffered and lived through.
Just when John was getting ready to leave, a skinny man in a suit followed several uniformed officers into the bank, paused long enough to question the guard, then headed straight for John, who recognized the type, as well as the badge clipped to the man’s belt.
Great. A detective. Naturally nosy, disinclined to believe anything he was told. This ought to be good.
John saw him pause to look at the dead man; then he looked straight at John, who stared back without flinching.
Horace Miles stepped into the silent breach by introducing himself as the cop approached.
“I’m Horace Miles, president of the bank. I saw everything.”
“Detective Robert Lee,” the newcomer said, then put his hands on his hips and gave John the once-over, eyeing the bloody shirt as well as the blood on John’s jeans. “So, hero, what’s your name?”
Sarcasm was the last thing John expected. It made him angry. He stood abruptly, well aware that he was now towering over the skinny man’s head.
“Considering the fact that right now, my chest hurts like hell, I don’t appreciate your sarcasm,” he drawled. “My name is John Nightwalker, and I’m not a hero. I was just in the wrong place at the right time.”
Lee wanted to be pissed, but the man was right. “Sorry,” he said. “That came out wrong. Let’s back up and do this all over again. So, Mr. Nightwalker, could you tell me what happened?”
John pointed to the walls where a half-dozen cameras were mounted. “I could…but it appears that Mr. Miles here will be able to provide several different angles on the incident for your viewing pleasure. Suffice it to say, the man tried to rob the bank, took a woman hostage and was pointing his gun at one of her kids. I distracted him. He shot me instead of the kid. I put a knife in his chest.”
Believing John had already been tended by paramedics, Lee’s next thought was the weapon in question. “May I see that knife?”
John winced as he leaned over, pulled up the leg of his jeans, then pulled the knife back out of its scabbard.
The detective’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped as he eyed the wicked blade. It was almost ten inches in length, with its widest point no less than three inches across. The handle appeared to be some kind of bone—maybe ivory. He frowned.
“Hell, mister, that thing’s big enough to fight bears with.”
“Yes.”
Startled by the easy answer, Lee gave John a cool look. “Don’t tell me you fight bears, too?”
“Okay,” John said, well aware he was pissing the man off. But he didn’t care. The detective’s attitude was anything but cordial, and John would have liked a couple of painkillers for his trouble.
Lee’s mouth dropped. “You fought a bear?”
John grinned slightly. “You don’t fight bears, detective. You either outrun them or kill them. I’ve done both.”
Lee snapped his mouth shut and glared.
“Do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?”
“Yes, actually, I do.” John pulled out his wallet and produced the license.
Lee eyed it without comment, then handed it back.
The bank president was surprised by the detective’s attitude.
“I’m sorry for interrupting, Detective Lee, but you don’t seem to understand. This man averted what could have been a long, drawn-out hostage situation. He saved a woman’s life and, most likely, the lives of everyone in here. There’s no way of knowing who that bastard would have shot next. Mr. Nightwalker did nothing but defend himself. The robber shot first. Ask anyone here.”
“Oh, I will,” Lee said.
“Am I free to go?” John asked.
“I’m going to need you to come down to headquarters and—”
“Why?” John asked. “Your case is closed.”
“Because you put a knife in a man’s chest, that’s why,” Lee argued, then realized people were staring and pulled back his emotions.
“He shot me first,” John said. “Don’t I get to defend myself?”
“Yes, but—”
“I have a permit for the knife.”
“I’m the one doing the questioning,” Lee snapped.
“Then ask me some questions,” John said.
Lee