BOOTH
As the conference room empties, I step into Bones' path, forcing her to stop.
"You're staying at my apartment tonight."
It's not a request and Bones isn't sure what to make of it. The woman has no poker face and it is clear her first instinct is to refuse. I'm prepared to battle if I have to, I'm just praying it won't be necessary.
Damn it, Bones, just let me have this one.
You'd think the full horror of what happened this afternoon would have registered with me as I held my hands on Vincent's chest, trying to stop the flow of blood. I've seen enough injuries during my time in the military to know he wasn't going to make it: Shock had set in immediately and he was losing blood fast. Broadsky had gone center mass as we'd been trained. Vincent didn't stand a chance.
I'd done what I'd done for Bones.
I didn't realize how much God had been looking out for me today until I met the FBI techs at the crane. I had to give Broadsky credit: It was an amazing shot, one I'm not sure I could have made.
And I couldn't say I hadn't been warned.
"You never see the bullet that takes you down."
But when one of the techs handed me Broadsky's cellphone inside a clear evidence bag, my knees nearly buckled as the full scope of his plan came into focus. On any other day – any other – I would have handed my phone to Bones and it would have been her lying on an autopsy table right now.
The only way Bones will be out of my sight tonight is over my dead body.
For someone detached from her feelings most of the time, Bones is remarkably astute at others. She straightens her head and shifts on her feet, those big, expressive eyes filled with questions and indecision. I give my head a short nod.
This is happening, Bones.
And as though she's heard me, she agrees with a simple…
"Alright."