Chapter Eight
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At the sound of the gunshot, Griff’s instincts took over.
He hooked his arm around Lily and yanked her down just as another round tore through the air above them. They hit the scorched ground hard, the sharp edge of broken wood digging into his elbow, the stink of ash and burned insulation hitting his nose like a punch.
They scrambled behind what was left of her coffee table. A stone-topped piece warped and blackened but still solid enough to serve as cover. Barely.
His heart slammed against his ribs, every muscle wired tight. His hand went to his sidearm. Adrenaline surged, but his mind stayed clear. Focused.
He turned to check on Lily. To make sure she hadn’t been hit. Thank God she hadn’t been. She was breathing fast, eyes sharp, clutching the metal lockbox tight against her chest. No panic. Just fury and fire. She gave a single nod to let him know she was okay.
Another shot rang out, hitting something behind them with a sharp crack. Then another.
Close. Too close.
Griff shifted, trying to angle his body over hers, scanning the tree line, looking for the muzzle flash, for any sign of movement.
Whoever was shooting knew what they were doing. And they weren’t done yet.
Another shot cracked overhead, slamming into what remained of the wall behind them and showering them with bits of scorched drywall and soot.
Griff gritted his teeth, ducked lower behind the ruined coffee table, and carefully angled his head around the edge.
He scanned fast. The tree line across the road, maybe thirty yards out.
Dense enough to give cover, sparse enough in winter that he could see flashes of movement if the shooter exposed themselves.
Staying low, he worked his phone from his pocket and sent a quick text to Hallie to let her know there was an active shooter at Lily’s.
Hallie would send backup, but Griff knew the deputies couldn’t just come charging in, not with bullets flying.
Still, a police presence might get this asshole to stop firing.
Another round rang out, hitting too close.
He tracked the trajectory. There, in the empty lot across from them. A patch of brush shifting in rhythm with the shots. Steady. Deliberate.
“Tree line,” he muttered. “Just across the road.”
Lily shifted beside him, still crouched, the lockbox gripped like it mattered more than breath. “Can you see them?”
“No,” he said, frustration tightening his voice. “But I know where they are.”
He cursed under his breath. There were houses behind that stand of trees. Not visible from here, but close enough. If he fired back and missed, even by inches, he could hit a wall, a window, a kid on a couch.
He couldn’t take that shot.
But clearly, the shooter didn’t share that concern. Another round cracked past them, splintering the remains of a broken doorframe inches above Lily’s head.
She flinched but didn’t panic. “Who the hell is doing this?”
“I don’t know,” Griff said, eyes locked on the trees. “Didn’t get a glimpse. Could be a hired gun. Maybe Margo. Everett.”
He paused, jaw tight. “But I don’t think they’re here. Not right now.”
His mind went to Rhett. He’d left pissed off, wounded pride bleeding out just as fast as the bullet had. He’d shown up uninvited. Angry. Frustrated. Paranoid.
And if he’d circled back…
Griff’s gut twisted. Maybe Rhett hadn’t just come to gloat. Maybe he’d come to finish what someone else, or he, had started.
Another round ripped through what was left of the front wall, sending a jagged chunk of siding spinning past Griff’s shoulder. Then, cutting through the chaos, a voice. Faint, but rising.
“Lily? Are y’all okay?”
A woman. Concerned. Close.
Griff’s blood ran colder than the wind. He turned his head, just enough to catch movement to the left, near the edge of the property. A figure stood halfway down the front walk, arms hugged around a robe, calling out across the road.
“Lily!” she called out again.
Lily groaned beside him. “Damn it. That’s Diane. My neighbor.”
Hell.
Griff’s pulse jumped. “Diane, get back inside,” he shouted, loud and firm, trying not to panic. “Go now!”
Another shot cracked out. Not toward Diane, thank God, but it didn’t matter. One stray bullet was all it would take. So far, the shots had been focused. Directed at them. But he wasn’t about to trust that streak to continue.
The woman froze, startled, and then thankfully scrambled back toward her house. Griff blew out a breath of relief and shifted his weight, eyes locked on the tree line.
Whoever was behind the trigger hadn’t slowed down.
The next shot didn’t miss by much.
It slammed into one of the last upright beams still standing, a blackened skeleton of the house frame that had somehow stayed vertical. Until now. With a groan and a sharp crack, the wood gave way, tipping fast and hard toward them.
“Move!” Griff barked, shoving Lily with one hand as they both rolled to the side, the scorched beam crashing down right where they’d been seconds earlier. Dust and ash erupted around them, filling his lungs with smoke and grit.
They hit the ground hard. Lily grunted beside him, clutching the lockbox like it was gold. He grabbed her arm, pulled her behind another slab of rubble just as another bullet snapped past.
They were too exposed now. Too easy.
Griff didn’t hesitate. He drew his weapon, pivoted on one knee, and fired. Not to kill. To disrupt.
He aimed high—toward the upper branches of the tree line where the shooter had to be—but high enough that no house behind it would take the hit. The shot cracked through the air, clean and loud.
The return fire stopped.
Just for a beat.
“Got their attention,” he muttered.
It was enough. He and Lily scrambled back toward the coffee table, still mostly intact and now angled against a collapsed section of the floor. Together, they heaved it upright again, turning it into a makeshift cover.
Griff dropped low behind it, breathing hard. “Next time,” he said, voice tight, “we bring better cover.”
Lily gave a short, dry laugh that was pure nerves. “And a rocket launcher.”
In the distance, sirens wailed, sharp and rising, cutting through the brittle silence between gunshots.
Griff froze, listening.
The firing stopped.
Just like that.
“Coward,” he muttered, scanning the tree line. “Chickenshit knows backup’s coming.”
Lily was already moving beside him, levering herself up with one hand, eyes narrowed. “He’s running,” she said, her voice tight with fury.
Griff rose alongside her, keeping low, and he caught it. A flicker of movement between the trees. A shadow slipping fast through the underbrush. The figure moved with purpose, practiced.
Not panicked.
But definitely escaping.
Lily saw it too. She tossed the metal box onto a heap of debris without hesitation. “Let’s go after the bastard.”
Griff was already moving even though he was well aware of the big-assed risk they were taking. Charging after an armed shooter into a stretch of cover with no guarantee of backup in position yet. It was reckless. The kind of thing that could get them both killed.
But letting that bastard disappear into the trees? Letting him regroup and come back stronger, smarter, maybe with a clean shot next time?
That wasn’t an option.
“We move fast,” Griff said, already picking up speed. “Eyes sharp, weapons up.”
Lily was right beside him, gun drawn, feet pounding over the gravel and ash as they sprinted across the road. No hesitation. No fear. Just the drive to end it.
The trees loomed ahead, shadows thickening with every step. Griff’s breath stayed steady, his muscles coiled and ready. Any second now, the shooter could stop running and turn. Fire again. And this time, it might hit flesh.
But he kept going, boots hitting the edge of the woods, gun up, heart pounding.
If this was going to end—then it was going to end now.
They reached the trees fast, ducking low as they entered the cover of branches and brush, every sense on high alert. The ground was soft here, coated with pine needles and leaves, the air colder, still holding the faint echo of gunfire.
But the shooter was gone.
Griff scanned the area. Nothing but trees, a few scattered footprints already smudged by motion and speed. No movement. No sound.
He cursed under his breath, sweeping his weapon in a slow arc, eyes sharp.
Then he saw it.
Griff moved closer, eyes narrowing as something caught the light near the base of a tree. Tucked beneath a curl of bark, pinned there by a jagged splinter of wood, was a scrap of paper. No, not paper.
A photograph.
He reached for it carefully, keeping low, and pulled it free. Lily stepped beside him just as he turned it over.
The photo was grainy, the edges curled and worn. It had been taken from a distance, maybe through a long lens, maybe with shaky hands. But it was clear enough.
Hannah Cole.
And in this shot, the man she was kissing wasn’t Everett Langston.
It was Bobby Ray Moore.
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