Harrison could hardly believe what he was seeing — the scene in his house in Silverdale repeating itself, only this time with Christine. He screamed at Mixell to stop, at the same time knowing his words were useless. Mixell would not rest until Christine lay slain at his feet.
His words had no effect, but Christine’s attempt to wrest herself from Mixell’s grasp provided an opportunity. Mixell’s face and the right side of his body were exposed as Christine tried to twist away from the knife cutting into her face. Harrison retrieved his pistol and trained it on Mixell, hoping to take a head shot. But Mixell’s face was still partially blocked by Christine’s, so Harrison went for his body instead.
Christine screamed in agony as the knife dug into her face, nicking her jawbone before sliding up her right cheek. She felt the blade cutting deep into her flesh, scraping across bone before the knife’s hooked tip caught momentarily on her cheekbone.
She had no idea of what was happening around her, unable to focus on anything but the searing pain as the knife sliced through her flesh. Mixell must still have had her in his grasp, because there was no sensation of ground beneath her feet. The only thing her mind could focus on was the warm blood streaming down her face and neck, plus the mind-bending pain as Mixell freed the knife from under her cheekbone, ripping the blade up toward her eye.
Through the haze of pain and fear, Christine heard a pistol being fired, and Mixell’s body jerking as the bullet hit its target. Thankfully, the knife stopped moving, but Mixell still held her firmly. Her feet hit the ground, then she was dragged back behind a stack of crates, where Mixell dropped her onto the concrete.
Standing behind the crates, Mixell released the knife and retrieved his pistol from behind him. He had taken a round in his upper right chest, but the wound didn’t appear serious.
Christine was crawling slowly away, leaving a trail of blood on the floor, and Mixell debated whether to finish her first or shift his attention to Harrison. He decided to focus on Harrison, who was armed. Christine could be dealt with later.
He heard Harrison’s rapid footsteps; he was repositioning, undoubtedly taking cover before Mixell got a clear shot. He peered around the stack of crates, firing a round just before Harrison slipped behind a pallet of crates about thirty feet away.
Movement to the side caught Mixell’s attention. Christine had regained her feet and was staggering toward a nearby stack of crates. He wanted to finish her off while he held her in his arms, feel her body go limp as she took her last breath. But he would have to move into the open to grab her, giving Harrison a clear shot.
Regrettably, things would not end tonight exactly as he had hoped. But he could at least let her suffer a little while longer.
He shifted his pistol and fired twice, putting two bullets into Christine’s back.
Harrison watched in dismay as shots rang out, followed by Christine’s body shuddering as two bullets hit her, then she dropped onto the concrete floor.
He screamed at Mixell, but he wasn’t sure what he was saying, the words tumbling from his mouth. He started firing at the crates Mixell was hiding behind, knowing that it wouldn’t change Christine’s fate. Anger and hatred consumed him, and he suddenly found himself racing across the warehouse toward Mixell, rapid-firing his Glock. He kept squeezing the trigger until the pistol stopped firing, then he released the magazine and reached for another one, slamming it into the pistol grip.
Mixell took advantage of the short pause, peering around the crates. He brought his pistol to bear, but Harrison swerved to the left just before Mixell fired, and the bullet missed. The shift further exposed Mixell, offering Harrison a clear shot. Both men fired almost simultaneously, and Harrison felt a bullet punch into his left shoulder.
At the same time, Mixell’s head jerked backward, accompanied by a puff of pink mist blossoming behind his head.
Mixell collapsed to the ground as Harrison raced toward him. He knew Mixell was dead, but he kept shooting him until the second magazine was empty.
Harrison stopped and stood over Mixell’s body, breathing heavily as the frenzied haze gripping him faded. Then his thoughts and eyes focused on Christine. She hadn’t moved since she hit the ground.
Quickly, he was beside her, kneeling. She was alive but unresponsive. Her skin was pale and her breathing was fast and shallow. He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and called Khalila, requesting help.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” she said. “I called the NCTC after I dropped you off. Backup and medical are already here, only a block away.”
Harrison hung up, then removed his shirt, hoping to stem Christine’s bleeding, but there was so much blood that he wasn’t sure which wounds were the most critical — those in her back, abdomen, or face.
He folded his shirt and placed it on the ground beside her, then gently turned Christine over, placing the bullet wounds in her back atop his shirt, so the weight of her body would help curtail the bleeding. He assessed the wounds in her abdomen, which weren’t bleeding as heavily as the ones on her back, then resisted the urge to look away after examining the damage to her face. Mixell’s knife had torn through almost the entire right side of her face.
As he knelt beside her, applying pressure on the abdomen wounds with his hands, he realized that Mixell had been right — he had never stopped loving her. He had truly loved Angie, but his feelings for Christine had never subsided, they had simply been placed aside. He had often wondered what would have happened if Christine had called before he proposed to Angie. But he had always avoided answering that question. Now, as he knelt beside Christine, he knew why. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but he would have said goodbye to Angie and resumed his relationship with Christine.
Khalila burst through the warehouse door, followed by law enforcement and medical personnel. A team of four paramedics rushed across the warehouse and knelt beside Christine.
“What happened here?” the lead paramedic — Ali Rosenberg, according to her name tag — asked Harrison.
After he described Christine’s wounds — the obvious ones to her face and abdomen, plus the two bullets entering her back — Ali asked Harrison to give them some space.
He backed up but hovered nearby until Khalila stopped beside him and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “Let the EMTs take care of her. There’s nothing more you can do.”
They retreated a short distance as Harrison watched helplessly. He wasn’t a physician, but he’d seen enough battlefield injuries to understand how serious Christine’s wounds were and what the paramedics were doing as they attempted to stabilize her.
Ali performed a rapid trauma assessment, checking Christine’s ABCs: airway, breathing, and circulation. “I’ve got a weak pulse,” she announced, “and her breathing is labored.”
In addition to Christine’s fast and shallow breathing, she had also started gasping for air, even though she was unconscious. Harrison knew it was a bad sign; Mixell’s bullets had punctured one or both of her lungs.
Ali listened to Christine’s chest with a stethoscope, then reported, “No lung sound on the right. Get me a needle decompression kit!”
Her partner handed her the kit, and Ali jabbed the needle into Christine’s right side, between her second and third ribs.
“Needle’s in,” Ali announced as blood and air spurted from the open end of the needle, relieving the internal pressure on Christine’s right lung.
Another paramedic intubated Christine, connecting the thin tube to an oxygen bag placed over her mouth and nose, which was squeezed every few seconds. Now that Christine’s compromised breathing had been addressed, Ali assessed her other wounds.