Chapter 2 #2
He stepped out into the hallway, his muscles tensing as he studied the entrance to the only unchecked room in the corridor. The door stood slightly ajar, the doorframe splintered much like the front door.
Senses on alert, he nudged the door wider and stepped through, avoiding the pale square of starlight cast through the window.
Dropping to his haunches, he peered beneath the bed.
Relying on the little bit of light from the window, he discovered two suitcases, no dust and a pair of house slippers.
The only door in the room had to open to either a closet or a bathroom.
He rose and padded softly across the room, setting his feet down one at a time as quietly as he could. If the woman was being held captive by a man in the closet, Teller couldn’t risk making a rash move that might cause the man to react brutally, killing Ms. Moore.
If Ms. Moore lay on the other side of the door, mortally wounded, he was wasting time he could use to save her. Standing to the side of the door, he reached for the handle.
As his fingers touched the cool metal knob, the door exploded outward. A blond-haired woman burst from inside, screaming like a banshee straight from hell, wielding a wickedly large butcher knife.
Teller ducked his head and shoulders to the side, narrowly missing the blade that glinted in the starlight.
With a lightning-quick sweep of his arm, he knocked the hand holding the knife hard enough to send it flying across the room.
No sooner had the knife left the banshee’s hand than the woman hunkered over and rammed her shoulder into his midsection, moving him backward like a linebacker bulldozing a quarterback.
“Whoa, hold on a minute.” He staggered out into the hallway before he regained his balance. “I’m here?—"
He didn’t get the rest of his sentence out before she balled her fist and jabbed toward his gut.
Teller captured her small fist in his big hand but didn’t twist his body around in time to avoid the knee she slammed into his groin.
“Oomph,” he grunted as pain shot through him, the force of her assault taking his breath away. He doubled over, losing his grip on her fist.
The woman spun and raced away from him, heading for the back of the house.
“Wait,” he wheezed, still bent over, pain radiating from his crotch through the rest of his body, making it nearly impossible for him to straighten.
He gritted his teeth, fought past the pain and limped after her, struggling to get air from his lungs past his vocal cords. Finally, he yelped, “Ms. Moore!”
It was too late. She’d bolted out the back door and down from the porch.
Teller increased his speed until he sprinted after her, calling out her name. “Ms. Moore! Wait.”
She kept running, crying out, “Help me! Please, help me!”
He had to stop her. Though the police cars neared, her attacker might still be lurking in the shadows of the bushes, armed and willing to shoot.
As Ms. Moore passed a concrete bird, Teller caught up with her. He grabbed her around the waist with one arm, bringing her to an abrupt halt.
She fought, kicking and screaming.
Teller struggled to maintain his hold on her and his gun while her bare heels battered his shins.
When he turned toward the house, the woman planted her feet against the concrete birdbath and pushed hard, sending him flying backward.
He tripped over a garden paver and fell with her still clutched in his arm. He landed flat on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs. Though he lay stunned, his arm didn’t loosen its hold on the squirming woman.
“Let me go!” she cried, elbowing him in the ribs. “Help! Someone, please help!”
“That’s. What. I’m. Trying. To. Do,” he said through gritted teeth. Maintaining his hold around her waist, he rolled over, squashing her small frame between his big body and the ground.
“Get off me,” she murmured, her voice strangled by the weight of his body crushing her into the grass.
“I am not the man who attacked you. I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, easing some of his weight off her.
“Then why did you smash my car and then break into my house?”
“That wasn’t me. Your front door was already broken when I arrived.” He didn’t want to move until he knew she wouldn’t try to run again. If the assailant returned, Teller’s body might be the only shield protecting her from gunfire. “Jace Hawkins and his wife, Kalea, sent me.”
All the fight went out of her. She lay still, her breathing coming in shallow gasps.
He realized he was crushing her, but he didn’t want to let her up until he was certain she wouldn’t run into the attacker’s range.
“The man who broke into your house has a gun. We need to get back inside before he uses it on us,” he said softly. “Can you make it back to the house?”
“Only if you let me up,” she grunted.
Sirens screamed loudly. Teller figured the police were on her street by now and would arrive outside her home in seconds.
The perpetrator would have to be insane to stick around.
Teller wasn’t taking any chances. “On three, we’re both getting up at the same time.
Stay low and move in front of me. Don’t stop, don’t look back, just keep going until you’re all the way inside and in the hallway. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Ready?” he whispered. “One...two...three.” Teller pushed to his feet, grabbed her around the waist, yanked her upright and shoved her in front of him. Hunkering down, they ran toward the house.
By then, the sirens were so loud he barely heard the pop of small-caliber gunfire.
Something stung his left shoulder. He didn’t stop to investigate but ran faster, knowing he hadn’t been stung by a bee.
“Go! Go! Go!” he said, urging Ms. Moore to pick up her pace.
When the woman stumbled going up the back steps, he lifted her off her feet and carried her through the open back door, through the kitchen and into the hallway, out of the gunman’s range.
Out of the man’s range, only if he didn’t follow them into the house.
Strobing lights flashed through the front windows. The police had arrived.
Teller remained in the hallway with Sachie Moore, his body bent over hers, shielding her from behind in case the attacker came through the back door.
The police stormed through the front door, spread out in the living room, one heading toward where they lay low in the hallway.
“Drop your weapon,” the young officer yelled.
“I’d rather lay it down.” Moving very slowly and deliberately, Teller laid his gun on the floor and slid it across the floor toward the officer.
The policeman kicked the gun behind him. “Now, raise your hands in the air and step away from the woman.”
Teller straightened, raising his hands in the air, wincing at the stab of pain in his left shoulder. “The attacker went out the back. He’s armed. If you hurry, you might catch him. He’s already fired three rounds.”
The young police officer kept his weapon trained on Teller. “I said move away from the woman.”
Teller stepped backward, keeping his body between Ms. Moore and the back of the house. “The longer you wait, the further away he’ll get.”
“How do I know you’re not the attacker?” the young officer said. “No one’s leaving until backup arrives.”
Another siren wailed toward them, dying down as the police car came to a stop in front of the cottage. Two more officers entered the house, all aiming their weapons at Teller.
“I’m not the attacker,” Teller said. “Ms. Moore’s friend sent me.”
“Are you hurt, Ms. Moore?” the officer’s partner asked. “Can you move toward me?”
The woman’s body shook so much that her voice trembled when she answered. “I’m not hurt.” She struggled to her feet and moved toward the officer. Once she made it past the officer who’d been holding his weapon aimed at Teller from the start, his partner moved forward.
“Hands against the wall,” he said. “Spread your feet.”
Teller wasn’t going to argue with armed men who might spook and start shooting.
Having been shot once that evening, he didn’t want to risk taking another bullet from well-intentioned, if nervous, young officers.
He turned and planted his palms flat against the wall and spread his feet wide.
The fact that he could still move his arm with minimal pain was a good sign.
The bullet had only grazed him. It was just a flesh wound.
The man holding him at gunpoint called out over his shoulder to the two officers who’d just joined them. “He said there’s another armed assailant who left through the rear of the building. We’ve got this one. Go!”
Teller shook his head as the two men ran past him, down the hallway and through the kitchen. The gunman would be long gone by now.
The officer approached him, kicking Teller’s heels out wider, then proceeded to frisk him, starting at his shoulders and working his way downward.
When he reached his hips, he removed Teller’s wallet from his back pocket, slid it into his front breast pocket and continued.
When he reached the bottom of Teller’s right leg, he stopped and jerked the denim up, revealing the Ka-Bar knife he kept as backup.
The policeman yanked the Velcro loose and tossed the knife in its sheath toward his partner.
After running his hands over Teller’s other leg, he finally stood and flipped open the wallet he’d confiscated.
“Driver’s license says this is Teller Osgood. If this is, in fact, his wallet.”
“That’s my face on the driver’s license and my military ID,” Teller said, still leaning against the wall. “While you’re holding me at gunpoint, the real bad guy is getting away.”
“We got a call saying this woman and this house was under attack. On our way here, we got another call stating neighbors heard gunshots and a woman screaming. Since you were the only one with a gun when we arrived, we have to assume you’re the attacker.
By rights, we need to haul you into the station and sort things out from there. ”
“They heard gunshots because the attacker fired three rounds.”