The doctor was young, reminding her this was one of Tampa's teaching hospitals, but she was reassured by his quick fire of orders to place an emergency call for the surgeon on duty. He tapped the bracelet on Mac's wrist. "Get this off of him and get him ready for Dr. Hilaman."

"We'll need to cut it off," the EMT responded. "It's got a key lock."

"No," Violet shouldered forward, yanked the key from the thin silver chain around her neck, snapping it. "I've got it."

They gave her room, and she didn't waste time, lifting his wrist and fitting the key to the discreet locking mechanism. Mac twisted his hand away, bringing up the other hand to fend her off. Even unconscious, he didn't want her to take it.

The emotional reaction overwhelmed her, made her vision gray around the edges, the fear of losing him rushing into that vulnerable opening he'd torn in her heart. But she kept it together, leaned over him, shoving the nurse off her. "I've got it, baby," she whispered. "It's me. Let me take care of it."

She felt the speculative looks of the medical personnel around her, but then Mac's grip slackened and she had the bracelet in her hand.

"You're going to have to stay out here, sugar." The big black nurse was nudging her back with kind but determined intent. "Go give his information to the ER desk. That's how you can help now."

"Don't call me that," Violet said, her voice trembling. But the nurse was already gone, behind swinging gray doors that sealed Mac away from her.

"I need to speak to a member of Detective Nighthorse's family."

With his thinning hair and unfashionably plain black frame glasses, Dr. Hilaman looked more like a computer nerd than a surgeon, unless one looked through the lenses of those glasses and saw the hard, direct look to his eyes. They swept the waiting room, took stock of all the police waiting there.

"You're looking at them," Darla said quietly. "Mac doesn't have any living family, doctor. I'm Sergeant Darla Rowe, his boss. I signed the surgical waiver. And this is Violet Siemanski. She's his..." She looked toward Violet, standing next to her.

"I'm his," Violet said simply. "Is he...has he..." She couldn't force herself to finish it, not without a hint of hope visible in Dr. Hilaman's countenance.

It had been eight hours since Mac had disappeared into the surgery. She felt Darla's frozen stillness beside her, of those behind them. His immediate co-workers, Detectives Consuela "Connie" Ramsey and Martin Suarez, and a waiting room full of cops. It seemed like Mac's entire squad had emptied out to share the vigil. As if by being present, they could convince Fate to swing in the fallen man's favor.

"No," Dr. Hilaman said, but there was no easing of his expression, no reassurance of any kind to be found there. He studied them, his gaze shifting between Violet's face and Darla Rowe. "I'll talk to the two of you, then, privately, about his condition. If you'll follow me."

Violet walked at Darla's side, not looking at her, not doing anything but focusing on Dr. Hilaman's back and putting one foot in front of the other. She didn't want to hear his prognosis. She had a sudden, desperate and irrational thought that if she didn't hear it, her will alone could make him survive this night.

Stop it, Violet. He needs you. Don't lose it now.

She remembered the night Mac had held her in the tub, after the shooting. How he had kept the demons from taking her over. Well, she owed him the same. She'd hear Dr. Hilaman describe them, and then figure out how to put herself between Mac and whatever threatened him, drive them off and keep him with her.

Instead of taking them into one of the small anterooms, Dr. Hilaman took them down a hallway closer to the surgery, into an X-ray room, dim except for the series of films placed up on display on the lighted view screens. Dr. Hilaman stopped on the other side of them, leveled his somber eyes on Sergeant Rowe. "I know I don't have to tell you that Detective Nighthorse is in extremely serious condition."

"Violet is a police officer as well, Doctor. We both understand what kind of injury this is."

He nodded. "All right then." He directed their attention to an overlay chart of the human body, pinned up on the wall next to the X-rays. Violet had a difficult time shifting her gaze away from the stark black and white of those X-rays, the shadows and light of Mac's body, to the garish colors of a cartoon-like depiction.

"This is the entry point, through the small intestine. The bullet came in at an angle, and it did significant trauma to the pancreas. The spleen was completely compromised. We removed it. The pancreas is a difficult area to work on, because of the spongy quality of the organ, but we were able to stitch it back together. See this vein here?" He motioned with his pen. "This is the splenic vein. It's a tributary into which a number of veins flow from the spleen, pancreas and parts of the stomach. It, too, was badly damaged and had to be repaired, as well as a whole series of smaller arteries."

"He's not out of the woods yet." Darla spoke in a wooden voice.

"Not by a long shot." It was clear that Dr. Hilaman had a learned opinion of Mac's chances, and Violet watched, her tension building, as he measured their capacity to hear it.

"You don't think he'll make it," she said. Her voice wasn't her own. It was hollow, as if it echoed out of the aching chambers of her heart.

"He's tough, and in good condition, but the overall health of the body has little to do with the prognosis for this kind of injury. The bullet and the debris that it forced into his body-wood splinters, fiber stuffing-they made a mess of one of the most closely knit areas of the human anatomy. The next several days will be critical. If he comes through them, there will still be a long and difficult recovery period. A dangerous one. With this type of injury, late complications could arise. Complications that could cause a serious setback, even death.

"If he makes it through post-surgery period," Dr. Hilaman said steadily, "he will need home care, a nurse. A long period of recuperation, likely six months or more, time for his body to heal from the trauma."

"He'll have whatever he needs," Violet said. "Can I see him? I want to see him."

Need to see him. Touch him.

The doctor looked toward Violet. She put everything she could into her expression to convince him. To make him understand that Mac needed her near, that the connection between them, her strength, her presence, was vital.

"You may sit with him," he said at last. "And you-" He turned to Sergeant Rowe. "You may look in and satisfy yourself that he's alive and getting the best of care. Ordinarily I'd allow no visitors, but I suspect you both would be in there the moment I turn my back."

"And we are armed," Rowe pointed out, without a trace of a smile.

"There is that."

Violet sat in the ICU, watching lights blink, listening to machines beep, to soft-soled shoes slap with varying levels of urgency up and down the hall. The stench of antiseptic filled her nostrils. She hated it. Hated the wait.

Her hand stayed on Mac's, her fingers tight on his wrist, so every thready pulse beat was answered by the sure sound of her own. Though she didn't trust the beeps from the machines, she marked every tone of them as well, jumping at the slightest variation.

The nurse came in as she did every half-hour, laid a hand on her shoulder. "I'm going to need you to give me a few minutes with him this time, Officer. We need to take some readings. And you need a few minutes' break. Go get some coffee."

Violet knew by the tone of the nurse's voice she would brook no resistance. Since she was allowed here only as long as the nurses passed on good behavior reports to Dr. Hilaman, she knew she had to obey.

Still, she had to set her jaw and firm her resolve for several moments before she could release his hand. The power and virility was leeched from his skin, making him look like he belonged in a coffin. "I'll be right back," she whispered to him, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead, savoring the taste of his skin, still living.

At the end of the hallway there was a cramped nook with a couple of chairs and a side table with old magazines. Violet assumed it was provided for those, like her, who were temporarily ousted from their loved one's side for tests or procedures. Darla Rowe sat in one of the chairs. Violet didn't want coffee, didn't want to be any farther from Mac than she had to be, so she walked the twenty steps down the tiled hallway and took a seat across from her. "Are they all still here?"

"Some of them had to go back to work, or home to their families, but they're taking shifts in the cafeteria on the third floor. I've been getting the reports when the nurse comes out, taking that down to them. How's he look?"

Violet met her gaze. "He's still here."

Rowe nodded.

The two women said very little, but as the moments passed, Violet felt the other woman's regard become more intent upon her, and the weight of unspoken words building between them. She liked the look of Mac's boss, and under normal circumstances would have gone out of her way to be nice, but she wasn't really feeling nice at the moment. Perhaps it was that hostility emanating off of her adding to the rising tension, as much as something similar coming off of Darla Rowe.

"I've been fortunate," the police sergeant said at last, her voice a quiet murmur. "I haven't had to do this that often. But when I have, I've always wondered how platoon leaders do it in war zones. Watch their men go down, knowing that if they'd done one thing or another, it wouldn't have happened. Even when you send them out in the line of duty, you still did the sending."

Violet lifted her head. The early afternoon light was coming through the window in the nook, throwing Rowe's profile into relief. She was hearing a tone of voice she was sure the woman rarely used, because a sergeant couldn't afford to second guess herself, not with a squad of men and women depending on her confidence. But the quiet of this out-of-the-way part of the ICU against the boiling activity just outside it, the strain of keeping watch here in separate solitude for hour upon hour, left time only for contemplation and bitter hindsight, apparently for both of them. Violet was glad for the distraction, she realized, because her own thoughts were eating her alive.

"There were other ways he could have conducted this case," Darla mused. "He was pushing himself to the forefront from the beginning. He said he wasn't her target victim, but I think he expected to be made by her, so he could make himself her target. He didn't seem at all surprised when she left a note on the last body, telling him he was next."

"She...what?"

"The bitch addressed it to him."

"And you didn't pull him off the case, then?"

"No, I didn't." Darla leaned forward in the chair, propping her elbows on her knees, looked steadily at Violet. "I trust my people's judgment, Officer." Violet saw her high regard for Mac in her face, heard the pride. "What I didn't see, however, was that he was pushing too hard, and he was already tired. He was way overdue for vacation time. I trusted his instincts, but in this case, you're right, I should have pulled him off the case. He knew what he was doing the whole time, and knew this could happen. It had become too personal."

"Yes, it had," Violet said abruptly. "He was determined not to have another person's trust betrayed, their life taken. And you couldn't have stopped him from trying, exactly because it was so personal."

She was furious, knowing Mac had taken the risk, but she understood him enough to know he wouldn't have let it go down any other way. He was that damn stubborn. "Well, I expect he'll get that vacation now." Her voice cracked slightly. She tightened her jaw, looked toward the window.

"Yes, he will." Darla leaned back in her chair, studying Violet in that way that was starting to get on her nerves, so she turned her head, met the sergeant's look head on.

"Is there a problem?"

"My niece has converted to the Wiccan faith."

Violet blinked. "Excuse me?"

Darla shifted, uncrossed her legs, re-crossed them with the right leg on top this time. "I'm fond of her, and so of course I did some reading on it. It's a very alternative type religion, if you're familiar with it at all?"

Violet nodded, drawing her brow together in confusion.

"It attracts some nasty fringe elements, as the road less traveled often will. But at its core, it's a lovely faith, with principles that draw from..." A smile touched her lips that Violet did not understand. "...from natural law. People live in a very unnatural world, Violet. Those who walk outside the lines of that unnatural world, seeking their natural place, the way their instincts call them to be, they often walk a road of high risks for themselves. Doesn't make them wrong, just a bit braver, or perhaps more foolish, than most of us." She let her gaze travel down the hall, toward the open door to Mac's room. "I don't claim to understand the path that calls to the two of you, but I do know it's a hell of a risky lifestyle for two cops."

"All relationships have risks, Sergeant Rowe," Violet said at last, not sure what the woman was after, but giving her the simplest, most honest answer she had.

"So they do." Darla rose, her expression unreadable. "I'm going to go make my rounds, see who's still around, give them a status. What should I tell them?"

"Tell him he's an oak. And oaks survive what no one else can."

Darla reached out, closed her hand on Violet's. Turning her hand over so their palms met, Violet laced her fingers with the sergeant's, gripped hard. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the emotional connection and eye contact as well. She just squeezed, and Darla squeezed back, a silent communication of what the man twenty feet away meant to both of them.

Then she pulled away. Violet waited until Darla's footsteps retreated to raise her lids, which she suspected gave both of them the necessary time to compose themselves. Her timing was good, for as she opened her eyes, the nurse came out of the room, nodded at her. No change, a good thing at this point.

Violet rose, went back to the room. She paused in the doorway a moment, looking at him there. He was such a big man, his feet all the way at the end of the bed, those long arms lying pale and unmoving on the covers. That beautiful chest, the hair she loved completely shaved from it for surgery. But that didn't matter. Sinking down by his side, gripping his hand again, she imagined that the strength and love she'd felt in Darla Rowe's touch would soak into him with her own, reinforce the fight going on inside to keep him with them all.

In the raw clarity that the strain of the past hours had brought to her, Violet knew why she'd been so determined to have him the first time she'd seen him, when she'd sensed he was a cop. A part of her had believed it was a sign, that she'd found the fairy tale, someone who would share her life as well as her bed, someone who understood what she was, who she was. All the corners and rooms. Now, denied his strength, she still wanted him with all her heart, wanted him to live, to be with her, to see if they could make a go of it.

The mother who had held her son through the night when he first had to take a life had died several years ago. The brother had been killed in the line of duty a decade past. She knew they were here, sitting in this room, helping Mac find his way back to her. His living family was right here. Her fingers tightened on him.

She was so tired, but she couldn't close her eyes. Each time she did, she saw it in slow motion, Kiera knocking her on her ass, her head hitting the wall. The struggle to stagger to her feet, her head ringing from the impact. The squeezing panic in her chest, knowing she was going to be too late. She'd thought the terrifying roaring had been in her head, but then Mac had ripped the bench loose by throwing his body to the side and rolled, coming to his feet. That gorgeous mangled broad back shielding her as he charged forward. She'd heard the scream tear from her throat, knew it was not going to stop him. The jerk of his body was the only pause he made, and she saw the bullet punch out of his back, no more than an inch away from his spine, and thud into the wall by her head.

At the time her mind had shut down, refusing to acknowledge it, because she'd needed all her adrenaline to focus on taking down Kiera. But in the helicopter she had seen it replay over and over in her mind, and waves of terror came with every rewind, until she was praying silently over and over for a miracle, praying for the copter to go faster. Praying to go back in time so she could be faster and make it not happen.

There was no worse place to be shot. Dr. Hilaman knew it. Every cop knew it. But she believed in Mac more than in medical science. She believed in his indomitable will, which had resisted her so strongly from the first and yet kept him fused to her, despite his fears of accepting his true nature. Knowing the alternative was unthinkable, she had to believe he would survive.

She knew now that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. At that moment when she had answered Kiera, when her eyes had locked with his, there had been nothing but the truth of their hearts. No time, no shields, nothing but the simple honesty of two lives stripped down to the last breathing moment together.

"Mackenzie." She laid her cheek on his large hand, rubbing against the coarse hair, the rough knuckles. "Wake up. I need you so much."

The tone of the monitor stumbled, made her heart jump three beats. She straightened to glance at the machine. In her peripheral vision, she saw the nurse in her blue scrubs standing in the doorway.

"I think it was just a skip," Violet said. "Damn thing keeps scaring the shit out of me, every time it goes irregular."

"Well, let's see if we can't make it a bit more flatline."

Violet spun.

It was Tamara, not a nurse, standing in the doorway. Kiera's sister, composed as a cold statue, leveled a .38 directly at Mac's chest. Her finger squeezed the trigger.

It was ten feet to the door. There wasn't time for Violet to reach for her ankle piece or do anything but throw her body over Mac's upper torso, curling herself over his chest and head, her own skull an obstacle the bullet would have to shoot through to get to his.

The first bullet ripped through her shirt at the waist, burning her. Violet flinched at the staccato sounds of shots, her heart hammering so loudly against her chest she couldn't tell whether it was her own heart making her jerk, or slugs tearing through her flesh. Mac's hands moved, confused, scrabbling, his subconscious responding to shots the way any conscious cop did, even if he didn't have the physical ability to protect himself. He found her body, gripped, and she held onto him, kept him covered, unable to move even as she heard shouting, running feet, thuds.

"Officer Siemanski! Violet! Violet! Get off him, move off! He's gone flatline."

She heard the horrible whine of the monitor, would have wanted to cease living herself at the sound if her hand hadn't been curled around his throat, feeling his pulse pounding against her fingertips.

"No, the unit's been hit," a nurse called out above the din. "Get a new one in here, stat. Get a cuff on him. Officer, you have to move."

A variety of voices, calling at her from different directions, the hands of the nurse, then Suarez and Connie, prying her tight fingers off him.

Pull it together, Siemanski.

Letting go of Mac was the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life, but she managed it, rolled away, let the doctors and nurses swarm over him.

Falling back to the wall, she assessed the scene. Sergeant Rowe was checking her weapon, returning her service pistol to her shoulder holster. She stood just beyond Tamara's body, which was collapsed in the doorway, a macabre sight with nurses and medical personnel stepping hastily back and forth over her while a doctor checked her vitals, confirming that she was dead. Uniforms hovered just behind him, waiting to lift the corpse out of the way. There'd been no time to wound. The sergeant had taken Tamara straight through the chest cavity, twice, and dropped her. Two Styrofoam cups floated in a pool of brown liquid running across the hospital floor, on a direct course to intercept the trail of blood that leaked from Tamara.

Darla's gaze met Violet's. "Thought you could use some coffee," the sergeant said.

Violet nodded, a jerk of her head. The shock and terror were wearing off, leaving anger. Deep, tear-the-ass-off-the-nearest-fool-willing-to-get-close-enough-to-her anger.

"Why wasn't she being watched?"

Consuela Ramsey, standing at Rowe's side, stiffened at the tone. "Early this morning, a uniform informed her that her sister had been killed. She told him that she was going to their parents' place to break the news. She wasn't a suspect, Officer Siemanski."

"So someone was careless enough to let her know Mac was here? Did they just pull their heads out of their asses yesterday? And how the hell did a woman who was a dead ringer for the woman who put Mac in this bed walk through a hospital of cops without a single fucking one of them noticing?"