Chapter Sixteen
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While he waited for Barnes to come on the line, he shifted his grip on his weapon, his eyes never leaving Sherry’s motionless body.
Beside him, Laney reached for the door handle. “I should check her—”
He caught her arm as fast as he could. “No.” His tone came out sharper than he meant, but he didn’t let go. “This could be a trap.”
Laney’s mouth pressed into a tight line, frustration sparking in her eyes. “She’s probably bleeding out, Harlan. We can’t just sit here.”
His gut twisted because she was right. Every instinct told him to go secure the scene, render aid, but his training was louder than his gut instincts. Sherry wasn’t just any victim though. She was their top suspect, and she was smart enough to know how to bait them.
“She could have planted IEDs under that culvert,” he said. “Or wired herself to take us with her if we get close.”
Laney exhaled hard and leaned back against the seat, gripping her gun like it could anchor her. The muscles in her jaw ticked as she fought herself, torn between compassion and caution. He was just as torn.
The only bright spot, the one thing that loosened the vise around his chest, was the thought that if Sherry was bleeding out in front of them, she wasn’t on her way to the ranch. Evie was safe.
At least from her anyway.
Still, Harlan’s nerves hummed as he watched the dirt and weeds around Sherry, waiting for a telltale wire glint or unnatural shift in the ground. Waiting for something to prove his worst suspicion right.
Sheriff Barnes’s voice came across the line, rough and strained. “What do you have, Creed?”
Harlan kept his eyes locked on Sherry’s body, scanning the culvert, the ditch, the tree line beyond. “Sherry Dalton is down. She’s about twenty yards off the road near the culvert, and she appears to be unresponsive and bleeding.”
There was a hard curse on the other end, followed by a sharp exhale.
“Hell. I can’t get out there right now. I’ve got injuries stacked from the truck explosion, and the fire spread.
The whole town’s in chaos.” The sheriff’s voice dropped lower.
“Call your people. Get Crossfire Ops moving. I’ll get county units headed that way, but it’ll take at least thirty minutes. ”
Harlan’s stomach clenched. Thirty minutes was an eternity if Sherry was dying. Or if Billy or Brannigan was waiting to make their move.
“Copy that,” Harlan said, and he ended the call.
He immediately punched in Noah’s number, keeping his phone pressed to his ear while his gaze swept the culvert again. Every twitch of the grass looked like a trip wire.
Laney leaned forward in her seat, her breath tight and fast. “What if she’s alive and losing blood? Harlan, we don’t have thirty minutes.”
He squeezed her thigh, grounding her and himself. “I know.” His eyes never left Sherry. He wouldn’t let Laney out there until he was damn sure it wasn’t a trap.
The line clicked, Noah’s voice sharp and alert. “What’s your status?”
“We’ve got a former deputy, Sherry Dalton, down near the culvert where the other IED was found just a few days ago.
She’s possibly injured. Could be bait. Could be she’s using herself as a trap for Laney and me.
Sheriff can’t send help, and I need you to move operatives now.
Have them bring equipment to scan for explosives. ”
As Noah started issuing rapid-fire instructions to someone in the background, Harlan tightened his grip on the phone. His grip was so hard that his knuckles ached, and every muscle was wired tight as he watched for the smallest movement in the kill zone stretched before them.
Through the glass, Harlan froze when Sherry moved. She shifted weakly onto her side, then tried to push herself up, her voice ragged and carrying just enough to reach them.
“Help me. Please,” Sherry called out.
Harlan raised the binoculars and zoomed in. The details cut into sharp relief. A gash streaked across her temple, blood seeping down into her hairline. Her hands were bound in front of her with coarse rope, and there was more blood on her mouth and shirt.
“Damn,” Harlan muttered under his breath.
Laney leaned forward, tension in every line of her body. “She’s tied up.”
“Yeah. I see it.” He adjusted the focus and studied every inch of the ground around her. No glint of wire, no obvious trigger device, but that didn’t mean anything. “That cut on her head looks bad, but it could be staged. Same with the blood. We don’t know if any of this is real.”
Laney’s hand pressed against the dash, her breath uneven. “She sounds desperate, Harlan.”
He lowered the binoculars, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Once Crossfire Ops arrives, they’ll sweep this entire stretch for explosives. Then we’ll move in. Not before because if we step on an IED, we could blow her up with us.”
Laney nodded, but her eyes stayed fixed on Sherry. The desperation in her gaze was different, softer, but edged with fear. Harlan reached over, brushing his hand over hers for just a second before tightening his grip on the binoculars again.
“After Crossfire Ops gets here, I’ll keep her in my sights the whole time,” Harlan let Laney know. “If Sherry so much as twitches wrong, I’ll stop her before she can make a move.”
And he knew Laney would do the same thing. She was the best kind of backup he could have.
He focused on Sherry once more, but his mind stayed on Laney. He couldn’t risk her walking into a trap, not when every instinct screamed this was exactly what Billy, Brannigan, or someone else wanted.
The phone buzzed in his hand. Harlan glanced at the screen and saw that it was a text from Noah.
Help’s on the way. Ten minutes out. Sending Beck with them.
Harlan’s shoulders eased a fraction. Beck Culver was Crossfire Ops’ combat medic, a man who had patched them up in places where there had been no hospitals for miles. If anyone could keep Sherry alive long enough to answer questions, it was Beck.
His thumb hovered over the screen, ready to type a quick thanks, when a sharp sound cracked through the stillness.
A heavy thud.
His head snapped up. The noise had come from behind them.
Laney turned too, eyes narrowing. “What was that?”
Before he could answer, the road behind their SUV ripped open in a violent flash. The boom shattered the air, heat and debris blasting upward as the asphalt tore apart.
A grenade.
The vehicle rocked with the force, rattling his bones. He ducked instinctively, arm flung across Laney to shield her as dirt and gravel slammed against the SUV’s windows.
The SUV shuddered again, the echo of the blast still rattling through his ribs. Shards of asphalt and rock hammered the roof and hood, each impact like the strike of a hammer. The smell of smoke and scorched earth burned his nostrils.
Then came another crack, another thud.
“Brace yourself,” Harlan barked.
The grenade detonated ahead of them, a searing flash followed by a violent roar. The shockwave slammed the front of the vehicle, the windshield trembling in its frame.
Laney gasped, hand gripping the dashboard. “Oh God.”
Harlan’s jaw locked. Not just behind them now. The road ahead was collapsing in a haze of dust and fire. He could see the jagged maw of asphalt where the pavement had been torn apart, black smoke curling into the morning air.
Trapped.
The word thundered in his head, cold and final.
His gaze swept the tree line, his instincts screaming. Whoever had boxed them in wanted them pinned here, easy targets.
“Keep your eyes open,” Harlan warned her. “He could be coming for us.”
Laney lifted her weapon, her gaze fierce despite the fear that he knew was chewing at her.
Every second stretched tight with the smoke. The heat. The crackle of fire from the ruined road. And the knowledge that the next attack could come from anywhere.
The dirt rolled like fog, choking the air and clinging to the windshield. Smoke swirled through it in dark curls, stinging his eyes and turning the whole world into a haze of gray and black.
Harlan shifted the Glock in his grip, the polymer frame steady in his hand.
He angled forward, trying for a glimpse of Sherry by the culvert, but she was gone.
Either she had crawled away or someone had dragged her off.
And if he couldn’t see her, then he couldn’t see who else might be creeping through that cover toward them.
His gut tightened.
A grenade launcher. Nothing else hit like that. And if their attacker had two rounds, odds were good he had another. Maybe more. One shot into the SUV would rip through the cabin and turn Laney and him into red mist.
His finger flexed against the trigger guard.
It could be Billy. The man was unstable, unpredictable, and he’d vanished into the trees the night before. But Brannigan was just as likely. He had motive, plenty of anger, and a knowledge of explosives.
And then there was Sherry Dalton. Bleeding in the dirt, hands bound, looking like a victim.
Maybe too much like a victim.
Could she be running this show? Could she have an accomplice pulling the trigger while she played bait?
Harlan’s instincts screamed not to trust any of it. He swept the haze again, Glock raised, every nerve stretched tight as wire.
Backup was still eight minutes out. Too long to sit here like ducks in a shooting gallery.
“We can’t wait,” Harlan said, keeping his voice low but firm. “We’re going to have to risk moving.”
Laney’s eyes flicked to him, steady and determined. “I know.”
The smoke still hung thick, curling around the SUV and swallowing the edges of the road.
He swept the Glock across the haze, trying to pick out movement.
Nothing but shadows shifted in the swirling dirt.
His gut was tight, knotted with the knowledge that another grenade could hit them at any second.
Then he spotted it. The culvert. The concrete mouth sat low and intact, maybe forty feet ahead. Sherry was nowhere near it now, but it was shelter, the only real cover he could see.
“It’s our best shot,” he told Laney.
Her lips pressed tight. She knew what he was thinking. A culvert like that could be rigged with trip wires or pressure plates buried in the dirt. Whoever had planted the first bomb there knew the ground too well not to leave surprises behind.
Still, waiting here was suicide.
Laney gave a short nod without hesitation. “Then we move.”
Harlan felt a pulse of something fierce—admiration, fear, maybe both—as he tightened his hold on the Glock and scanned the haze again. If they went for that culvert, they would either find the cover they needed or blow themselves sky-high.
Either way, staying in the SUV was not an option.
Harlan shoved open the glove box and grabbed the spare magazines. He shoved one into his pocket, slapped another into his vest. Laney mirrored him, sliding fresh rounds into her own weapon, her movements sharp and precise.
“Take an extra,” he said, passing her a loaded clip.
Her fingers brushed his as she accepted it, and her eyes met his in the dim haze. She didn’t need words. She was ready.
He pulled in a breath, braced, then shoved his door wide. The smoke curled in, gritty and bitter in his lungs.
“Crawl out through my side,” he told her, his voice low but firm. “Don’t touch the shoulder on your side. I can see the road here, but I can’t make out the ground over there.”
Laney hesitated only long enough to nod.
“And watch every single step,” Harlan added. “No guessing. Look before you move.”
She gave him that same tight nod, determination etched across her face.
Harlan ducked low, Glock in hand, and slid out first, sweeping the haze with his weapon. The heat from the earlier blasts still rolled off the ground in shimmering waves. He crouched, waited for her, his pulse pounding.
Laney followed him out, moving slow and careful. Together, they started toward the culvert, the air thick with smoke, each step a gamble between survival and the trap waiting for them.
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