Thankful For Mountainville (Lone Star Littles #35)

Chapter One

Dylan Garrett’s feet pounded the pavement in long, bone-jarring strides.

With each slap, he felt a pain reverberate in his ankles before jolting up his legs. But he ignored it and pressed on. He had to. He was chasing a suspect, after all.

A police officer can’t just quit mid-crime.

So, he filled his lungs with precious oxygen, exhaled fully, and repeated the process over and over as he bolted down the sidewalk, in pursuit of his quarry.

His quarry happened to be a strong, hulking, six four, five inches beast of a man who’d just robbed a gas station about three blocks south. His size and criminal nature weren’t the only things that made him dangerous, either.

He had a gun, too.

That was always fun to deal with, Dylan thought sarcastically.

The weapon was currently tucked in the guy’s waistband. Still easily accessible. Dylan would have to be beyond careful.

He heard his radio crackle as the dispatcher asked for his exact location. He was out of breath as he replied, but he managed to huff the words out.

He didn’t slow down.

The fleeing suspect hooked a sharp right, veering into an overgrown yard and dashing straight toward a chain-link fence. He climbed over it pretty easily—due more to the length of his legs than actually being in shape. Still, he tripped a little as he came over the other side but managed to stay upright as he stumbled. He ran deeper into the backyard before disappearing behind a rusty metal storage shed.

Dylan was about two inches shorter than the suspect and about thirty pounds lighter. He was able to hop over the fence easily. He landed in a crouch and stayed low, knowing the suspect might start shooting.

Dylan’s gun was out and trained at the shed.

“Throw down your weapon. Slowly walk out with your hands raised. Backwards. Walk to the sound of my voice. Now!”

Nothing.

Had the suspect fled into the next yard? Behind the shed, only about six feet away, was a row of trees that skirted the fence along the property line. It was possible the suspect was able to dash into those trees, clear the fence, and get away. But Dylan hadn’t heard any commotion. Not even the tell-tale clink of someone climbing a fence.

No. The guy was still behind that shed.

Most likely with his gun at the ready.

Dylan’s heart thumped loudly in his chest, drumming all the way into his fingertips. He felt bile rising in his throat but managed to choke it down. Now was not the time to lose his nerve. It wasn’t about bravado. It was about staying alive. One little slip could cost him and the suspect their lives. Or even worse, an innocent bystander could be caught in the crossfire.

So, now was the time to remain calm and steady. Unwavering. Aware yet flexible.

As if on cue, Bryan’s worst fear was seemingly about to be realized.

Movement to his right registered in his peripheral vision. The sliding glass door of the house was opening to reveal a young boy, probably about seven, curiously stepping out to see what the commotion in the backyard was all about.

The sound of his mom’s voice rang out behind him. “Honey, shut the door. You don’t need to go out right now.”

The boy didn’t react to his mom. He was too transfixed by what he saw. A cop with his gun out? In his backyard? No way!

And from his vantage point, the kid could most likely see the suspect behind the storage shed, too.

His jaw hung slack, his eyes wide. It was like an action TV show playing out before his very eyes!

But when the suspect rushed forward, realizing he had the perfect hostage, the young boy’s fascination waned, replaced by sheer terror.

“Stop! I will—” Dylan’s words were cut off when the suspect haphazardly pointed his gun in Dylan’s direction and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was ominous and deafening in that normally quiet neighborhood. Wings fluttered loudly as birds anxiously vacated the trees. Dogs started barking somewhere in the distance.

Dylan dove to the side and rolled. It was a wild shot, landing harmlessly into the ground a few feet away, kicking up grass and dirt.

Dylan came up in a shooter’s crouch. He couldn’t let the suspect get inside that house.

The child screamed, stepped backwards quickly, and hurriedly slid the glass door shut. He managed to close it before the guy reached it, but he couldn’t lock it in time. The suspect already had one hand on the handle, trying to wrench it back open. He was a lot stronger than the child, so even though the boy fought hard against the force, it wasn’t really a competition.

Dylan had to act quickly.

Through the glass, he could see vague movement and realized the mom was on the scene now, crying out and trying to whisk her child to safety and lock that door all at the same time.

They were still facing the suspect, having a good view of him through the glass.

Dylan couldn’t just shoot the guy right there in front of that kid. The image would haunt the poor fella forever. Talk about trauma.

Plus, Dylan had no desire to take a life.

He wasn’t na?ve. As an officer, he knew that dreaded day may one day come. Right now, in this moment, he’d do whatever he had to do to protect innocents. If he had to trade the suspect’s life for that of the woman and child, he’d do so without hesitation. That certainly wasn’t his first choice, though.

And maybe it wouldn’t come to that.

Not even thinking—muscle memory taking over—he holstered his gun, took out his baton, and flicked it open.

He launched it in a straight line. The baton swished loudly as it sliced through the air with rocket force. Just as the suspect tore the sliding backdoor free, the projectile crashed into the back of his head.

He fell forward. The woman jerked her son back quickly, getting out of the way as the guy landed face first, his upper body in the house but his feet sticking out of the doorway.

Dylan had his gun out again as he approached. But he didn’t need the weapon now.

The suspect was out cold.