Freaking Cripes. She’d killed him. Complete and utter shock froze the moment in time. She’d killed Dylan. She’d injected him with the Syrette, killed him with the damn thing, and barely caught him as he’d fallen to the floor. Within the frozen fractions of the passing seconds, as she slid with him to the bottom of the vault, a thousand emotions tore through her. Then training took over. Coming up on her knees, she pressed her fingers to his carotid artery. The breath that had been stuck in her throat released in relief. There was a pulse, weak, but there. But, freaking cripes, something god-awful had just happened. Keeping one hand on him, on his chest to monitor his breathing—that it didn’t falter—she smoothed the hair off his face and leaned in close. “Dylan.” She spoke his name and smoothed his hair back again. “Dylan, can you hear me?” God, they needed to get the hell out of Whitfield’s, especially out of Whitfield’s safe. This was all so insane. “Dylan,”
