Chapter Eight
The crack of the bullet shook through her, the sound echoing inside her chest as the glass spiderwebbed. Isla flinched hard but saw the windshield hold. Bullet-resistant. Thank God.
Garrett already had his gun up, and she followed suit, yanking hers free and snapping her gaze to the tree line. Shadows pressed tight around the cabins, every shape a possible shooter.
Another shot rang out. Then another. The glass shuddered under the impact, fractures spreading like ice across a pond. A third bullet punched through, tearing a hole and spraying tiny shards into the cab. Isla ducked, heart pounding.
“Down!” Garrett’s voice cut sharp, but she was already folding onto the seat, gun still clenched in her hand.
More rounds hammered into the windshield, each one a brutal reminder that someone out there wanted them dead.
The shots kept coming, hammering into the windshield one after another until it sounded like the SUV itself might give way under the assault. The air filled with the sharp crack of gunfire and the rattle of safety glass breaking apart.
Isla lifted her head just enough to catch a glimpse through the fractured mess. A shard of glass nicked across her temple, stinging hot and sharp.
“Damn it,” Garrett snapped, grabbing her shoulder and dragging her back down against the seat. His body shielded hers as more bullets slammed into the glass, each one biting closer. He tried to angle for a look, but the barrage made it nearly impossible.
Isla’s heart thundered, her lungs tight with adrenaline. Who the hell was out there unloading on them? Paula? Maybe. Maybe the woman had panicked, terrified they were about to catch her in a lie about Harris.
The thought twisted Isla’s stomach. If Paula really had been hiding him all these years, would she go this far to keep it buried?
Garrett’s jaw was iron as he barked out a voice command, calling Noah. The line clicked, and Garrett’s voice stayed low and sharp. “We’re taking fire. Get backup from the nearest police station. Fast.”
The gunfire didn’t let up. Each shot hit with brutal force, ripping into the SUV like a sledgehammer. The windshield was a fractured mess, glass dust clinging to Isla’s skin. Another round punched lower, metal groaning as it tore into the engine block.
Her stomach dropped. They weren’t just trying to scare them off. The shooter was aiming to disable the vehicle, trap them here like sitting ducks until they could move in close and finish the job.
Isla gripped her pistol tighter, pulse hammering in her ears. If that was the plan, they weren’t going down easy.
Garrett’s voice was clipped and hard. “I’m getting us out of here. Stay down.”
She pressed herself against the seat, gun in hand, but cursed when he rose just enough to jam the SUV into gear. He was ready to punch them off the shoulder and into the road, bullets or not.
Then the rhythm of the gunfire changed. It wasn’t hammering straight into their windshield anymore. The shots angled, rattling through the trees. Isla lifted her head a fraction, squinting through the fractured glass.
Her stomach dropped. The target wasn’t them. Not anymore.
An old pickup truck rolled into view on the road ahead. The windshield spidered under a fresh hit, and she caught a glimpse of the driver. An elderly man. His head jerked, blood streaking the glass.
“Oh God,” Isla whispered.
The truck swerved, tires shrieking. Garrett’s curse joined hers a heartbeat before the pickup veered off course and slammed into the side of their SUV.
Metal screamed as the impact jolted her hard against the seat belt, rattling the air from her lungs. The pickup hit hard, metal shrieking as the front bumper crumpled into the SUV’s side. The jolt slammed Isla sideways, her shoulder crunching against the door.
Shards of glass tinkled down like ice, and the taste of copper filled her mouth where she’d bitten her lip. The smell of gasoline and burned rubber rolled through the air as she got a look at their situation.
Definitely not good.
The old truck sat jammed against them, its horn blaring in a broken, awful wail. Through the cracked passenger window she caught a glimpse of the driver, slumped forward, blood streaking down his temple. Her chest tightened.
“I need to help him,” she blurted, already reaching for the handle. “Cover me. I can drop out the passenger side and stay low to reach him.”
Garrett’s head whipped toward her, eyes flinty with refusal. “Not happening. I’m not letting you take that kind of risk.”
“There’s no other way,” she shot back, panic tightening her throat. “An ambulance can’t get through with an active shooter still firing at us.”
Garrett’s jaw flexed. Then his voice cut like steel. “Enough of this shit. We’re doing it on my call. Move on three. Get into the truck, and if you can, drag him out onto the ground. Don’t leave him sitting there in the line of fire.”
Her stomach lurched. “What about you?”
His eyes locked with hers, cold and unshakable. “I’ll stop this.”
A chill ripped through her at the stark certainty in his tone. She believed him. And that terrified her most of all.
The gunfire picked up again, bullets tearing into metal with sharp, punishing cracks. Isla’s pulse roared in her ears. Garrett’s voice came steady, unshaken. “One. Two. Three.”
She shoved the door open and dropped fast, practically tumbling onto the hard ground. Pain shot through her back, white-hot and vicious where her spine had been fused, but she bit it down and pushed forward on her elbows and knees. Grit dug into her palms.
She forced her eyes on the pickup ahead. The horn still blared, the driver unmoving. She couldn’t let herself think about the hail of bullets slicing the air or about the man behind her. Not about Garrett, even though every step she crawled felt like she was leaving him exposed.
Another volley cracked overhead, pinging against the SUV. She was nearly at the truck when a different sound cut through the barrage.
Gunfire, but controlled. Precise.
Garrett.
Isla ducked lower, heart in her throat. From beneath the pickup she caught the barest glimpse of him sliding into the ditch beside the SUV, moving with lethal efficiency. He wasn’t just defending. He was in full warrior mode, all steel and muscle memory.
And he was about to take the fight to whoever had come for them.
Gunfire cracked sharp and steady from Garrett’s position in the ditch, each shot measured, closing the distance to the attacker. Isla forced herself to stay focused, to do what she had promised.
She levered up enough to reach for the pickup’s handle and yanked it open.
The door groaned, the hinges catching, but she managed to wedge it wide.
Inside, the driver slumped against the wheel, his chest rising shallow but steady.
Blood streamed from a gash across his forehead, matting his gray hair.
His lips moved, muttering words she couldn’t catch.
“You’re alive,” Isla whispered, relief mixing with panic. “Just hang on.”
The windshield above him webbed again as fresh rounds hit. Metal shrieked as bullets tore through the truck. Isla’s gut twisted hard. If she left him there, he’d be dead in seconds.
“Sorry,” she muttered, bracing herself.
She grabbed his arm, praying she wasn’t making his injuries worse, and hauled with every ounce of strength she had.
Inch by inch she dragged him toward her, his boots scraping across the seat and then catching on the threshold before sliding free. With one final heave she pulled him out of the cab and onto the ground beside her, away from the line of fire.
Isla dropped to her knees beside the man, her hands moving fast, searching for injuries. Nothing obvious beyond the gash on his head, but the bleeding was bad. She caught his trembling hand and pressed it against the wound.
“Hold it here,” she urged, her voice sharp but steady. “Keep the pressure. Don’t let go. Help’s coming.”
His eyes fluttered open for a second, unfocused, then slid shut again. She gave his arm a squeeze. “Stay put. I’ll be back.”
Her chest was tight, but she knew what had to come next. An ambulance would never make it down this road while the gunfire kept flying. They had to end this first.
Isla crouched low and moved toward the end of the pickup, using its battered frame for cover. Her pistol felt heavier in her grip than it ever had, her breath loud in her own ears. She edged forward until she could peer past the front bumper.
Garrett was ahead, down in the ditch, moving like a shadow through the brush. Each step was calculated, each angle giving him the smallest slice of cover. Bullets still peppered the ground around him, spitting dirt into the air.
Her heart pounded. He was driving straight into the line of fire, and she couldn’t just sit back and watch.
Isla’s breath caught in her throat when she saw it happen. A round sliced across Garrett’s arm, jerking him sideways. Blood darkened the sleeve of his jacket, the shock of crimson searing into her vision.
“No,” she whispered, fear twisting hard in her gut. The thought of him going down, of losing him here in this ditch, slammed into her harder than the gunfire.
She couldn’t just crouch behind the truck and watch.
Lifting her pistol, she aimed into the thick cover where the shots kept flashing. She couldn’t see the shooter, not clearly, but she knew the direction. She squeezed the trigger twice, the recoil jarring up her arms.
Garrett’s head snapped her way, his eyes dark fire. “Get down!” he snarled.
She ignored him, fury and terror driving her. Another squeeze of the trigger, then another. The crack of her shots broke through the relentless rhythm of the attacker’s fire.
Garrett used the opening, sliding lower into the ditch, closing the distance to the gunman. Isla’s pulse thundered, her stomach knotted, but she kept her stance steady, giving him every second she could buy.
If he was going into the fire, she was damn well going to cover him.
The sharp wail of sirens cut through the chaos, rolling closer, louder with each passing second. Relief and dread tangled in Isla’s chest. Noah had gotten through. The cops were coming.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the gunfire stopped.
The silence pressed down hard, heavier than the shots had been. Isla held her breath, her pistol still aimed at the tree line, finger taut on the trigger. Every muscle in her body screamed with tension, waiting for the next round to rip through the air.
Nothing.
The sirens howled closer, echoing off the trees.
Her throat was dry when the truth settled in. The bastard was gone. Slipped away under cover of the distraction, leaving them with nothing but blood, broken glass, and questions that cut deeper than bullets.
The shooter had escaped.