Chapter 29
Crystalline death showered down as the window exploded.
Cory's body moved before his mind caught up, fifteen years of training compressed into pure instinct. He hit the floor hard, already reaching for Izzy when the second shot punched through the wall.
Reed froze for one terrible second—the classic civilian response that got people killed—then dove sideways off his chair just as Cory barked, "Down. Stay down."
The third shot turned the file cabinet into shrapnel, metal and paper erupting across the small office. Reed scrambled on hands and knees toward the desk, scattering papers like snow. "What the—who's shooting at us?"
The fourth shot answered him, the computer monitor disintegrating in a spray of glass and plastic. They were all belly-crawling now, three bodies trying to become one with the floor as shots five and six punched more holes through the thin walls.
Through the chaos, Izzy's voice cut clear and calm as a mountain stream: "Northeast ridge, 450 yards, elevation advantage of maybe 30 degrees."
Even with death whistling overhead, Cory felt a flash of admiration.
While he and Reed were just trying to survive, she was already analyzing, calculating, turning chaos into data.
This was the operator the military had trained, the one who'd survived missions he'd probably never have clearance to know about.
Shot seven cracked overhead, close enough that Cory felt the pressure wave.
"Why are they—" Reed's question died as shot eight slammed into the doorframe, showering them with splinters.
Cory saw Reed pressed against the wall now, clutching his left arm. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and steady. "I'm hit. I'm hit."
"Stay down, Reed. Don't move." Izzy's tone held the same authority Cory used at crime scenes—the voice that made people obey without thinking.
Shot nine went wild, hitting the ceiling. Reed flinched hard, his whole body trying to disappear into the wall. "They're trying to kill us. This is about what I told you—"
"Shut up and stay flat," Cory barked. Not the time for theories or confessions.
Shot ten, then sudden silence. The absence of gunfire felt almost as loud as the shots themselves.
Reed's breathing came harsh and ragged: "Are they reloading? Are they coming closer?"
"Bolt action, probably .308," Izzy murmured, and Cory marveled at her ability to identify the weapon from sound alone. "They're walking shots left to right—amateur pattern."
A distant engine rumbled to life, diesel by the sound. Cory's chest loosened slightly.
"There. They're bugging out." Izzy was already shifting position, preparing to check the window.
She moved like liquid mercury, flowing from prone to a careful crouch. Every motion deliberate. No wasted energy, no unnecessary exposure. Cory had worked with SWAT teams that didn't move this smoothly.
"Dust plume, heading north. Single vehicle, moving fast." She turned from the window, already shifting gears. "Clear?"
"Clear?" Cory echoed, though he trusted her assessment completely.
"Clear. Shooter's gone." Without missing a beat, she pivoted toward Reed. "Let me see that arm."
Reed hadn't moved from his position against the wall, shock keeping him frozen. "This is MedFlight. Has to be. I knew too much—"
"Reed, let me see your arm." Izzy's calm voice cut through his spiral.
She was already moving, tearing his shirt to expose the wound. Her hands stayed steady despite the adrenaline that had to be flooding her system. Quick pressure with the torn fabric to assess the bleeding.
"Robyn... my wife... she can't lose me too. Not after Sarah." Reed's voice broke on his daughter's name.
"She won't," Izzy said firmly. "I need my go bag from your vehicle," she told Cory.
He tossed her his keys without hesitation, then watched her approach to his SUV. Even now, even after confirming the shooter was gone, she didn't take chances. Low profile, checking angles, moving with purpose. The woman never stopped thinking like an operative.
She returned with the pack, already pulling out what she needed. QuikClot, Israeli bandage, medical tape. Her movements were economical, practiced—the hands of someone who'd dressed too many gunshot wounds in too many places where medevac wasn't an option.
"Through and through. You're lucky."
"Don't feel lucky," Reed muttered.
As she applied the QuikClot and began wrapping the wound, she continued her analysis. "From that distance, with that elevation advantage? A trained sniper could have put multiple rounds through our heads before we knew we were under fire. This was either an amateur or—"
"Or a warning," Cory finished.
She glanced up at him, a flash of approval in those dark eyes. They were thinking along the same lines. Good.
Izzy secured the bandage. "Keep it elevated. You'll need proper medical attention, but this will hold."
White-faced, Reed nodded.
Cory met Izzy’s eyes. "We check the ridge."
“Copy that.” Of course she'd already reached the same conclusion.
Twenty minutes later, they were climbing the dirt road to the sniper's position. Reed had insisted on coming, refused to be left alone at the shot-up office. Cory couldn't blame him, though the man's pale face and shaking hands worried him.
While Cory kept his sidearm handy, Izzy drove with the same competence she brought to everything else, navigating the rough road while constantly checking mirrors, monitoring potential ambush points. Her Glock sat on the console between them, close at hand.
The sniper's nest was exactly where she'd predicted. Cory felt that familiar crime scene focus settle over him as they surveyed the area. Fresh tire tracks in the dirt—wide wheelbase suggesting a truck or SUV. No footprints.
Izzy crouched to study the ground. "No brass. Looks like shooter stayed in the vehicle."
"Makes sense." Cory photographed the tire patterns. "Quicker escape, some sound suppression. Not that there’d be anyone around to hear." The tiny airfield was miles outside town.
Reed stood apart, cradling his bandaged arm. "Professional cleanup crew?"
Something bothered Cory about that assessment. He couldn't put his finger on it, but this felt... different.
A glint in the dirt caught his eye. He knelt, brushed aside some disturbed earth.
The remains of a mechanical pencil lay half-buried—clear plastic barrel cracked and split, the pocket clip bent at an odd angle.
Someone had driven over it, grinding it into the desert hardpan.
The mechanism was jammed, but he could see dark gray leads inside the broken chamber.
"What is it?" Izzy appeared at his shoulder.
"Mechanical pencil. Or what's left of one." He pulled out an evidence bag, collected the pieces carefully. The old-fashioned kind. Specific. Unusual. Where had he seen that before?
“Could have prints,” Izzy sounded excited.
“Good possibility.” It had clearly been run over by their shooter. Whoever had dropped it clearly didn’t know they’d left it behind.
She studied the scene one more time, that analytical mind working. "Ten shots in forty seconds. Spray pattern, not precise targeting. Amateur hour for sure."
He squinted down at the tiny airport shed. “Or someone who wants us to think it was an amateur.”
She raised her dark eyebrows. “Such a suspicious mind, Chief.”
“Comes with the territory.”
“No doubt.”
They returned to the vehicle in thoughtful silence, a shaken Osgood trailing behind them. The question of law enforcement hung in the air, unspoken but pressing. Cory knew what procedure demanded. Call the locals, preserve the scene, file reports. But...
"We should call the sheriff," Reed said, though his tone suggested he dreaded the prospect.
Cory looked at Izzy, saw his own calculations reflected in her expression. By-the-book meant hours of statements, federal involvement, their investigation grinding to a halt while bureaucracy churned.
"We're conducting an unofficial investigation," he said slowly. "I'm on personal leave. By the time locals respond, take statements, call in crime scene techs..."
"Plus, I'd have to explain why Hope Landing's police chief and a suspended mechanic were interrogating me in Nevada," Reed added. The reality of their situation seemed to settle on his shoulders like lead.
"I just want to go home to Robyn," he said quietly.
Izzy crossed her arms, decision made. "So we're all in agreement. This didn't happen."
The words should have bothered Cory more than they did. Failing to report a shooting, contaminating a crime scene, ignoring every protocol he'd sworn to uphold. But watching Izzy work—competent, decisive, mission-focused—he found himself nodding.
They were past playing by the rules.
"Let's go," he said simply.
As they prepared to leave, Cory found himself studying Izzy one more time. Blood on her hands from treating Reed, glass in her hair from the exploding window, dust on her clothes from investigating the ridge. She looked like she'd been through a war.
But her eyes remained clear, focused. Ready for whatever came next.
He'd worked with good cops, even worked with federal tactical teams. But Isabella Reyes operated on a different level entirely. He was deeply grateful she was on his side.