Chapter Seven
───── ? ────
The crack of the gunshot split the air, sharp and close, and the truck jolted hard to the right.
Laney’s shoulder slammed against the door as Harlan fought the steering wheel, tires screaming over the asphalt. The truck fishtailed, gravel spitting against the undercarriage, and the acrid stink of burning rubber filled the cab.
Her heart banged against her ribs, and she twisted toward the sound, the trees on her side of the road a blur of green and shadow.
Somewhere in there, hidden by the tangle of brush, someone had fired at them.
And another bullet followed. The second shot came fast, punching the driver’s side mirror into glittering shards that rained across Harlan’s lap.
Laney ducked low, her pulse roaring in her ears.
“Harlan!” she shouted.
She didn’t know if it came out as a warning or plea, but he already had the truck angled toward the narrow strip of ditch along the road. The grinding thud of the shredded tire made her teeth clench, but it was better than being a sitting target in the middle of the asphalt.
The truck skidded to a stop in the ditch, the frame rocking once before it stilled. She was already fumbling for both her weapon and the door handle.
“Go,” Harlan ordered, his voice low but sharp, and his command came a split-second before she intended to give the same one to him.
They couldn’t stay put, not at a standstill like this and with the bullets flying.
Laney drew her gun and hit the ground in a crouch, boots sinking into soft weeds.
The air outside felt thicker, charged, every sound magnified.
She heard the rush of blood in her ears, the ticking of the cooling engine, the faint rustle of leaves that could have been wind… or a shooter shifting position.
Yes, it could definitely be someone moving.
Glancing around for cover, she spotted some, and she darted toward the cover of a mesquite clump at the edge of the ditch. Laney kept her body low and the truck between her and where the shots had come from. Harlan was right behind her, the crunch of his boots just as fast and steady as her own.
Together, they dropped into the shadow and waited. Her breath was coming fast now, and her eyes scanned the brush, but she didn’t see or hear anything that would help her pinpoint, well, anything. The world seemed to hold its breath with them.
She was about to call this in, to request backup, when a dry cracking sound split the air and bark exploded from the mesquite trunk inches from her head. She ducked lower, her heart hammering. Whoever was shooting had a clear enough angle to kill them.
Harlan leaned out from cover just enough to peek past the truck. “The shooter’s in the brush, about forty yards out, near that fallen cedar,” he murmured.
His tone was calm, steady, but his eyes were locked in the way that told her he’d already not only calculated distance and cover, but he was coming up with a plan to put an end to this.
An end where they’d both make it out alive.
Laney did a quick text to call this in and tightened the grip on her gun, forcing her hands to stop trembling.
She spotted a flicker of movement between the cedar branches.
It was a sleeve, maybe. And she lifted her gaze just enough to watch the angle, tracking the shadow of the shooter shifting to try for another shot.
Another round of gunfire slammed into the truck’s side panel, and metal pinged in protest. Harlan gestured for her to circle wide and use the ditch to get a better position.
She shook her head once, unwilling to leave him exposed, but his eyes narrowed in the kind of look that said they weren’t debating this.
Damn him.
The biggest risk was to stay put, and they both knew it. Still, now wasn’t the time to get into that. They had to do something now because one of those shots might actually do the job that the shooter obviously had in mind.
Silently cursing, Laney moved, sliding along the ditch and keeping low. The weeds and underbrush scratched at her arms, but she kept inching along with the shooter’s position slowly widening in her line of sight. And she finally saw him.
Well, she saw a silhouette anyway. His shoulders hunched, and his rifle was braced.
Laney lifted her weapon, sighted in, and waited for Harlan’s distraction. She had no doubts it’d be coming very soon now that she was in place. And she was right.
“Over here,” Harlan shouted, levering himself up just enough to become a tempting easy target.
When Harlan’s shout rang out, the silhouetted figure jerked toward him, and that’s when Laney took the shot.
And she missed, damn it.
The shot she’d fired made the shooter duck, but it didn’t drop him. He bolted for deeper brush, vanishing in a tangle of cedar and mesquite. Laney’s pulse spiked. If he got far enough ahead, they would lose him. No way did she want that to happen.
Harlan caught her eye and pointed left, toward a narrow animal trail that cut around the thicket. She understood immediately. If she moved fast, she could get ahead of their attacker and block his escape. Harlan would be close by, moving at the SOB from a different angle.
She pushed through the brush, boots sinking into sandy soil. The trail curved, hemmed in by thorny scrub, but she kept her head low and her steps quick. Every snap of a twig under her boot sounded too loud, but she couldn’t slow down now.
Through the lattice of branches, she caught glimpses of movement—a shoulder here, the flash of a rifle barrel there. He was heading right where she thought he would. She tightened her grip on her weapon, ready to step out and cut him off.
The rustle of brush to her right told her Harlan was keeping pace on the other side. If they timed it right, the shooter wouldn’t see them coming until it was too late.
Movement flickered in the brush ahead. Laney swung her gun toward it, pulse pounding in her ears. A figure broke from cover, dressed in dark clothes and a black ski mask.
Her breath caught. That mask. It looked like the same person she had spotted the day before with a camera trained on her and Harlan after they’d discovered the bomb near the culvert.
The shooter didn’t slow. He pivoted toward them, rifle up. She squeezed off a shot, the crack splitting the air. The masked figure twisted at the last second, her bullet chewing bark from a tree trunk.
“Laney, down!” Harlan’s voice came sharp from her left.
Another shot rang out, his this time, and the figure darted back into the tangle of mesquite and scrub.
Laney kept her weapon up, scanning for movement, every muscle tight and ready. Whoever it was could have been any of them. Sherry. Billy. Brannigan.
The brush swallowed the shooter whole, leaving only the echo of her own breathing and the dry rasp of wind through the trees.
The brush went still, the silence heavier than the gunpowder in the air.
Laney’s gaze darted along the tree line, searching for the smallest flicker of movement, but there was nothing. Just shadows and the slow sway of branches in the breeze.
She took a step toward the cover where the masked figure had disappeared, her finger tight on the trigger.
“No,” Harlan said sharply from behind her. “Don’t. Could be a trap. Could be more than one shooter. Could be explosives.”
She froze, jaw clenched. He was right, but every part of her screamed to push forward, to chase, to drag whoever it was out of the trees and make them talk.
Laney lowered her gun, the frustration burning hot in her chest. She cursed under her breath.
Whoever it was had just made their move, had just tried to kill her and Harlan. And she still had no damn idea who they were or why they wanted them dead.
───── ? ────