Chapter Eight
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The bullet punched through the windshield like a fist, spraying shattered glass across the cab of the truck. Cassidy moved fast, covering her face as shards peppered her arms and lap.
Kincade shoved her down with one hand while drawing his weapon with the other. She hit the seat, her breath already ragged, her heart starting to slam against her ribs.
More shots cracked through the air, ripping into the hood. The engine coughed once, then sputtered. Smoke curled from beneath the crumpled metal.
Cassidy’s hand reached instinctively for the gear shift, her mind racing. If the engine wasn’t dead yet, she could throw it in reverse, try to back them out. But then she recalled what was behind them. A ditch, deep and narrow, overgrown with weeds and broken concrete.
They’d end up stuck, sitting ducks.
“Shooter’s elevated,” Kincade said, scanning the lot. “Somewhere behind the screen or up on the roof of the booth.”
She couldn’t see anyone, but she’d take his word for it.
Another round slammed into the passenger-side mirror. Glass exploded, and Cassidy ducked again. Her pulse was thundering in her ears, but she still managed to hear the sound of Kincade’s phone dinging with a text.
He grabbed it, his body still low against the dash, and read the message aloud. “It’s from Jericho. He called for Maverick Ops’ backup. He doesn’t have eyes on the shooter yet, but he’s moving in. He’s also adjusting the drone for a better angle.”
Cassidy peeked up over the dash once more, eyes locked on the distant screen and the dense trees behind it. She still couldn’t see their attacker, but she was pretty sure the shots were coming from the edge of the screen. Maybe the shooter was standing on support boards.
“Jericho says there’s a ranch about fifty feet behind the trees and the screen,” Kincade relayed to her. “He says be careful about returning fire. We’re not alone out here.”
Cassidy cursed under her breath. That changed things. They couldn’t just unload blindly toward the tree line. One wrong shot could hit a civilian. Or worse.
Another bullet slammed into the front bumper, the sharp crack making her flinch.
“Options,” she muttered. “We need at least one now that doesn’t involve us sitting here while being peppered with bullets.”
Kincade kept his head low, eyes still peering out through the shattered windshield. “Give Jericho a few more minutes to get closer. Once he’s in position, I’ll get out. Draw the fire. Whoever’s out there seems fixated on the truck. I can drop into the ditch and use it for cover.”
Cassidy turned toward him sharply. “That’s your plan? Walk into the open and hope you don’t get shot?”
His eyes met hers, calm and steady. “They can shoot through the truck, too. You saw it. The engine’s toast, the metal’s shredding. We sit here much longer, one of us is getting hit.”
She knew he was right, but the idea of him out there, exposed and alone, made her stomach twist. Every worst-case scenario flashed through her head—too fast, too vivid.
Before she could say anything more, a voice rang out across the lot. “I’m County Sheriff Becker. Drop your weapons and show yourselves.”
Cassidy froze, her heart jumping. Kincade’s head tilted slightly, listening. Becker? She frowned and exchanged a glance with Kincade.
“What the hell is he doing here?” she whispered.
Kincade didn’t answer. He was already turning toward the broken windshield, trying to pinpoint the direction the voice had come from.
Cassidy’s pulse kicked harder. The voice had echoed from behind the screen, the same general direction the shots had come from.
Something about that didn’t sit right. At all.
She stayed low and didn’t respond. Neither did Kincade.
Another shout came seconds later, more forceful this time. “Come out with your hands where I can see them.”
Cassidy shook her head, her grip tightening on her weapon. “Not happening,” she muttered. “Not until we know who the hell we’re dealing with.”
Kincade’s jaw was tight, his attention fixed on the tree line. He wasn’t moving either.
Because Becker might be here to help.
Or he might have been the one behind the trigger.
Kincade’s phone buzzed again. “It’s Jericho,” he said. “He has eyes on Becker. Not sure if he’s the shooter or not. Drone’s not picking up anyone else, but there are too many trees. Too much cover.”
Cassidy’s pulse pounded in her ears. “So we still don’t know if Becker’s the one firing at us.”
Kincade didn’t reply. She just stared through the shattered windshield, thinking. Too bad she couldn’t come up with a way out of this that didn’t involve them being in even more danger than they already were.
Her phone stayed silent. No follow-up from Travis. No confirmation that he was okay.
Another buzz came through from Kincade’s phone. “Becker just dropped out of sight,” he let her know. “Jericho’s going after him.”
Cassidy’s breath caught at the thought of Jericho having a shootout with the county sheriff. “So what now?”
“I’m backing Jericho up,” Kincade said, already checking the magazine in his weapon.
Cassidy grabbed his arm. “You think it’s a trap.”
“I think it could be a hundred things. But I’m not letting Jericho go in alone.”
She hated it. Hated the whole setup. But she didn’t try to stop him. Instead, she popped her own door and slid out behind him.
They crept along the edge of the lot, moving between the rusted speaker poles and crumbling concrete.
The screen loomed in front of them now—towering and ghost-white, pocked with weather stains and peeling paint.
Weeds had grown up around the base, some nearly waist-high, and the metal supports groaned faintly in the wind.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t over. And Cassidy had the sinking feeling it was only going to get worse.
Still no sign of Becker.
Cassidy crouched low behind a partially toppled pole, Kincade beside her. Another shot rang out, striking the gravel just feet away, spraying dust and stone into the air.
She swore and ducked tighter against the pole. Kincade jerked his head, signaling her to move wide around the back corner of the screen. They ran for it, boots crunching and lungs burning, then ducked behind one of the screen’s thick vertical supports.
A flicker of movement caught her eye.
Jericho.
He appeared just to the right of what was left of the restrooms. He had spotted them, lifted a hand, and motioned sharply toward the tree line behind the screen.
Cassidy followed the line of his gesture.
There.
Nestled in the shadows between two mesquite trees was a figure, almost invisible at first. Dressed in full camo, crouched low, rifle braced in his arms. A black ski mask covered his face.
Her stomach dropped. That had to be the shooter.
Kincade saw him too. He raised two fingers to Jericho, then pointed to the right, indicating a flanking approach.
Cassidy’s grip tightened on her weapon.
They had a shooter. A rifle. And the upper hand was slipping. Fast.
Kincade leaned close, his voice barely a breath against her ear. “We try to take him alive. Could be our only shot at answers.”
Cassidy gave a tight nod. This guy, whoever the hell he was, had nearly taken their heads off. But dead men didn’t talk. And if he was working for someone, they needed a name. A motive. Something solid to put this nightmare into focus.
She crouched lower and began circling wide as Kincade shifted closer to the shooter’s flank. Jericho was doing the same from the opposite side, closing in slow and quiet.
Cassidy’s mind raced as her boots crunched through the dry brush. The shooter could be a hired gun, someone brought in to finish what the arson at the safehouse had failed to do. Or worse, he could be one of the suspects themselves, someone trying to tie up loose ends before Travis spoke out.
She didn’t see Vance pulling a trigger himself. He was too polished, too political, but power made people reckless. Desperate.
She kept moving, staying low.
Kincade was less than fifteen feet from the shooter now, eyes locked on the man’s back, muscles coiled. One good burst of speed and he could take him down.
Cassidy raised her weapon, ready to cover him.
Then, a gunshot tore through the air.
The masked man jerked violently, collapsing forward into the dirt. His rifle clattered to the ground beside him.
Cassidy spun toward the sound. Sheriff Becker stepped out from the trees, gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel.
Her stomach dropped.
“No,” Kincade muttered, standing slowly. “Damn it.”
That was it. He wasn’t getting back up. And with him, their chance at answers bled out into the dirt.
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