Fifteen
Brock Gunner pulled a gray Ford Bronco onto a neighborhood street and parked with a distant view of Cole and Lisa Shipley’s house around the corner. There were cops and FBI agents damn near everywhere. Just like there were cops and FBI agents everywhere at the city park he’d just left. It was chaos back there, which had at least made it easy for him to get out without any extra trouble. Brock couldn’t stop cursing himself. He’d been a split second away from taking care of his first and probably most important target, and he didn’t squeeze the damn trigger in time. He’d failed. He’d completely underestimated Cole Shipley. The man’s swift and surprisingly powerful kick had come out of nowhere. In hindsight, he should’ve shot Shipley first before putting a second bullet into the cop. He kept replaying this tactical error in his head and getting more pissed off. Plus, he didn’t like killing cops. Brock would’ve had no problem taking out an FBI agent. The Feds were liars and bullies, and the family had endured several unfair government battles over the years. But cops were different. Brock had several friends back in Texas who were police officers, including one of his own cousins.
Brock picked up his cell phone, texted: Things didn’t go as planned.
Again, an immediate response: I heard. What the hell happened? You kill that cop?
Had no choice. He was about to arrest Shipley.
Then how the hell did Shipley get away from you?
Brock didn’t feel like explaining it. It made him look weak.
He texted: He got lucky.
That’s the second time he’s gotten lucky with you.
Brock didn’t respond. It was the brutal truth.
The man texted again: You have no clue where Shipley went?
No. But I’m parked down the street from his house right now.
Don’t bother. None of our targets are there.
All of them are gone?
Yes. Police are setting up roadblocks, trying to trap them in the valley.
What do you want me to do?
Stay close. Be ready. You take your rifle?
Yes.
Brock owned a Fierce Rogue backcountry hunting rifle, one of the best on the market. It was incredibly lightweight and amazingly accurate, especially in his hands. He’d taken a beer can off the top of a fence post from more than a thousand yards out when competing with some buddies. The rifle was in the bag sitting in the Bronco’s back seat.
Good. You may have to do this from a distance.
Distance is not a problem.
Yes, I know. Shipley say anything to the cop?
Didn’t get a chance. I stopped it.
Good. Don’t let this get away from us.
I won’t fail again.