Free The Second Lie (Immortal Vikings Book 2) by Anna Richland

luggage clustered by the turnstile. No children, thankfully. Only adults would be around whatever was going to happen.
    Her breathing picked up when she spotted a man in black pants, a black peaked cap and a black jacket topped with a reflective yellow vest. He looked like a cop.
    Staring must have distracted her, because her feet tangled with Stig’s, but luckily he caught her before she hit the floor. She felt a tickle of movement brush her chest, momentary, but noticeable.
    Stig cleared his throat and adjusted the bundle of newspapers tucked under his left arm. “Wend, one bit of advice, since I’ve always enjoyed your music.”
    The group paused in the center of the concourse, and every fiber of her being screamed
this was it.
    “Next time you do a job for Ivar, watch for leeches stuck to your arse.” He pointed his chin at a man in anonymous khakis and a windbreaker who stood half hidden behind a newspaper. “He’s followed us since a few blocks after Bodeby’s.”
    “What? Who?” Wend looked over his shoulder, but Skafe didn’t stop staring at Stig. If anything, his one eye narrowed and he leaned inward to hear, or maybe to take action.
    “And Skafe, after you apologize to Ivar’s pucker—” Stig reached into the center of the newspapers, “—tell him if he wants to talk, he owes me a drink tomorrow night at the Greek’s.” Stig glanced sideways at her, and his grin said
now
.
    Officer down
must be intended to get the cop’s help, so she opened her mouth and felt her chest rise as she inhaled. The movement made her realize that for the first time in hours, nothing pressed into her armpit.
    Boom.
The gunshot was so close she swayed from the sound.
    Then she registered the pistol in Stig’s hand and the blood—ohmigod, so red, so fast, so much more than the nosebleed on the street—spreading low across the front of Stig’s shirt where the borrowed jacket fell open. With his empty hand, Stig yanked Skafe closer.
    “Officer down!”
    Papers fluttered to the floor between the two men.
    “Officer down!”
    Black-and-white pages sopped the blood. More fell on top of the disarray while Stig held on to Skafe. Their feet scuffled in the papers, smearing vivid streaks of blood across the light golden-colored floor tiles.
    She became aware of screaming in addition to her own voice. Stepping away from the grappling men, she yelled as loudly as fear could force from her chest. She didn’t understand the fight, because it seemed as if Stig was trying to shove the gun into Skafe’s hand, rather than escape or shoot the other man.
    Part of her saw the scene as if from a distance, colors and movement seared into her brain in awful shocking detail. Skafe was frantically pushing to break free of Stig’s grip. With them locked together, she couldn’t help. Stig needed medical attention, that was obvious from the grimace on his face and the color of his skin, a greenish-white that almost reflected the overhead lights, but he kept fighting. More and more blood spilled and spread.
    A few people ran toward them, while others in the station ducked or fled. Beyond Stig’s shoulder an idiot held up a phone, and Christina screamed, “Officer down!” when she really meant, “Run, you stupid asshole, can’t you see there’s a gun!” Shouts clawed out of her chest by way of her throat, their hot trail of terror delineated by the blood on the ground. Red saturated Stig’s shirt. She could see it on Skafe, even spattered on her own legs and hands, like tattoos of fear.
    Wend turned and ran, skidding toward a row of glass doors.
    “Stop!” The policeman she’d noticed on the platform yelled after him and waved a large radio.
    Her legs were bolted to the floor.
    Sirens blared outside as another officer dashed at them from the direction of the tracks, quickly passed by a streaking blur of German shepherd. This officer pulled a black gun that seemed much bigger than the little thing of Stig’s.
    She had to sidestep