Chapter 133 - The Sheer Craziness

It all feels like the world has slowed down to a single moment: Miguel's body arching backward as he's yanked away, the back of his head hitting the table. She will never forget that sound, of bone smashing against something harder. She will never forget how Miguel let out a sort of whimper, from pain or surprise, she'll never know. All she knew is how the whole thing unfolded and shocked her to the core. And in the middle of it all is Gabriel, who, in his panic after what he presumed to be a timely swooping in to save her, throws his arms around her to calm her down.

"It's alright, Claire," Gabriel whispers. "It's alright. Miguel and I will…"

Yet Claire screams, and struggles away from him to point a finger at the person on the floor. Only then does Gabriel turn around and see where Miguel is—and his jaw drops. He stands there stunned, looking at his brother, at the blood crawling on the marble floor, and in that maddeningly terrible split second he connects the dots: he only grabbed his brother's collar just to get him away from Claire, who had been utterly terrified; he remembers how he had savagely done so with all his strength, forgetting for a moment that this man was Miguel.

She mȯȧns, "He's…He's bleeding…"

Her words bring Gabriel back to the present. By then people had arrived, helping Miguel sit up. Gabriel screams, "Don't touch him! You'll hurt him more!" So everyone takes a step back and gives him the floor.

Gabriel kneels down beside his brother and gently touches the back of his head. His heart leaps in his throat—he feels the warm gush of blood. "Jesus…." He looks around, and sees his people gaping at the sight of them.

"An ambulance is on its way," Dale says, appearing out of nowhere, his voice trembling.

"No," he mutters. "We can't wait for that." He looks at Miguel's face, who finally seems peaceful. Gabriel can't yet wrap around his head the realization that he might have killed his brother. Even if it seemed warranted. Even if that was never his intention; he only wanted to pry him away from Claire. Why did you force my hand, Migs? Tears peep out of the corners of his eyes. I'll make this right, he mutters.

Claire has also knelt beside him, and she's crying. She touches Miguel's cheek, muttering, "I'm sorry," over and over.

"It's not your fault," Gabriel says. Then using both his arms to prop his brother's body up, he barks orders through gritted teeth. "Help me get him to a vehicle. We can't wait for an ambulance. Have the car ready out front!"

Some of the bodyguards help him carry Miguel, while others have already run outside, coordinating traffic, opening the doors for them. Thankfully, Gabriel's Benz SUV is already waiting outside, its doors open.

"Claire," Gabriel says out loud, as they struggle to place Miguel on the seat in a comfortable position.

"I'm here," Claire responds, obviously trying to steel her resolve, although her voice cracks. The crowd parts to give way to her. "I won't leave you."

Dale jumps into the car to hold Miguel and make sure his head stays in place. While Gabriel slips into the driver's seat, with Claire beside him. He nods at the head of his guards, who gets the silent order: they're supposed to stay behind and wait at The Residence.

If he could make the car fly, he would, pedal to the metal. But he straddles the fine line between trying to reach the hospital as fast as he could, and taking utmost care to keep Miguel from shaking too much as it might cause unintended damage to his injury. Gabriel glances at the rearview mirror; he couldn't see Miguel from this angle, but he could see the leather seat smeared with blood, and the sight of it only makes his heart pound even madly. Hold on, Migs, he mutters to himself. Don't di—and he stops there, not wanting to mention the "die" word, not now, not when hope seems ebbing away.

Right beside him, Claire couldn't stop sobbing. And Gabriel doesn't know what to feel or think anymore—he feels sorry for her, but Miguel's situation is deathly urgent, like he couldn't even tell her to stop crying because it's all fine, Miguel would be okay. It's all complicated, as this moment is suffocating from so many layers of conflict that in the end, Gabriel focuses on the road ahead, trying to keep his mind on only one single thing: the hospital.

"His pulse is very weak," Dale mutters from behind him. "He's…" His voice trails off.

"Oh, God, no…" Claire cries out. "Please, no…"

Gabriel uses all his willpower not to give in. Thank God, the traffic is light because of the hour, and they're zipping by intersections and roads that are usually congested with traffic. "We're almost there," he mutters, to no one in particular, his eyes on the road, always on the road.

And in that quiet moment where nothing else seems to exist but him and the asphalt road ahead, the previous events play and replay themselves in his head. He got word from one of his men that Miguel had appeared at The Residence, looking for Claire, reeking of booze. He wasn't worried at all; he knew Claire is such a tiger when it comes to self-defense, and there were a dozen highly trained bodyguards posted in the building. And of course, he knew his brother well; after all, as they always say, Miguel is a lover, not a fighter. All his well-toned muscles were for show, sculpted in modern body-building gyms, under the watchful eye of a fitness trainer. He wouldn't be able to hurt her seriously, not with his bodyguards around. But still, he raced to The Residence upon receiving the call, leaving instructions to let Claire know. He had a plan: Claire could begin the "talk", the kind of talk that had been long requested. The talk could get the ball rolling. Miguel would be able to say things he wouldn't say if Gabriel's around. And it seemed perfect. Gabriel arrived at The Residence just as Claire and Miguel were sitting down to talk. He waited, watching them, listening to where the conversation would lead. And as it turned out, he was disappointed with his brother; Miguel appeared to have no intention at all of making an actual, fruitful conversation. He kept hee-hawing, always saying one inanity after another. And to his utter amazement, Miguel pounced on her like a wild animal—upon seeing that, Gabriel jumped from where he'd been observing them, and with his mind white from sudden rage, he saw his own hand grabbed Miguel's collar from behind, and then with all his anger in that hand, yanked him away as though Gabriel were trying to rip him to shreds.

He had murder in his veins at that moment, Gabriel realizes now. How could he do that? There's no simple answer. But at this moment, as his Benz SUV eats the road at more than a hundred miles an hour, all he wants is to save Miguel's life. Because he would never be able to forgive himself.

"Thank, God!" Dale blurts out in the back. "We're here!"

On reflex, Gabriel looks up; only then he sees the bright "Emergency" signage just a few meters ahead of them. And as the car eases into the front of the ER entrance, Gabriel gets that queasy weird feeling. This is the same hospital where, not too long ago, Miguel and Claire had stood vigil awaiting him to get back from his coma. Strange and sad how things have turned out.

Upon seeing the car, the hospital staff scramble to roll out a stretcher. They must have recognized the Benz, or the car plate. But when they open the car's door, the sight of Dale, his eyes bloodshot, with an unmoving Miguel on his ŀȧp, drops their jaws. "Sir Gabriel," Dale mutters, his voice cracking. "Sir, your brother doesn't seem to be…He doesn't seem to be breathing anymore."

That's when all hell breaks loose.