Chapter Eighteen
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The fire flared fast and hot, too fast.
Griff’s gut clenched as he turned toward the blaze behind the antique shop. The flames lit up the back wall, dancing wildly against brick and smoke, but beyond that, the alley was pitch black. No movement. No figure. Just a wall of darkness where someone had clearly stood and struck the match.
He couldn’t see who started it. Which meant the person could still be there. And likely was. He soon got confirmation of that.
When a gunshot cracked through the night.
Griff instinctively turned, grabbing Lily and yanking her toward the nearest car. “Down!”
They dove behind the cruiser, Hallie hitting the pavement with them a heartbeat later. The acrid stench of burning gas filled Griff’s lungs, and his heart slammed against his ribs.
Another shot rang out, sparking off the pavement just feet from where they’d landed.
Griff peered around the tire, eyes scanning the shadows beyond the parking lot. Nothing. No movement. But he could feel it, that they were being watched.
Hunted.
He looked over at Lily. Her eyes were sharp, her breath controlled, but he saw the tension running through her. She was ready for whatever came. So was he.
But they were in a bad spot.
The station door was a solid twenty feet away—pure open ground. A straight shot for whoever had the rifle.
And they couldn’t stay where they were. The snake-like trail of gasoline was still rolling toward them, flames chasing its oily path with terrifying speed.
“We’ve got maybe a minute before that fire gets to us,” Griff muttered. “If we stay here, we burn.”
Hallie was already pulling her radio, calling for backup.
Lily looked at him. “You got a plan?”
He did. But it was risky as hell.
He flattened his hand against the pavement, heat already radiating from the fire creeping closer. His brain kicked into overdrive, calculating the angles, the cover, the chances.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I’ve got a plan.”
Hallie looked over. “Please tell me it doesn’t involve charging an active shooter.”
“It involves a distraction,” he said, eyes flicking to the flaming trash can and the burning trail of gas curling toward them. “They want us to burn or get shot trying to escape. We’re not giving them either.”
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the flashlight, and he handed it to Lily. “When I say go, I want you to throw that as far as you can to the left—over near the corner of the lot. Maybe it’ll draw their eye.”
Lily gave a tight nod, her jaw clenched. “What are you going to do?”
“Pop smoke,” he said, pulling a small canister from the back of his belt—military issue. “Cover our movement. We use the distraction to get to the side entrance. It’s closer than the front.”
Hallie blinked. “That was in your jacket?”
“Yeah. Thanks to Strike Force.”
He checked the wind. It was blowing just enough to push the smoke between them and the building.
“This is going to get us about ten seconds,” Griff let them know. “Move fast. Stay low.”
He yanked the pin, tossed the canister high, and a second later smoke billowed out, thick and gray. Lily hurled the flashlight across the lot, its beam flipping wildly through the air and clattering loudly in the distance.
Another shot rang out, off to the side. The shooter had taken the bait.
“Go!” Griff shouted.
They ran, low and fast. The heat behind them was blistering now, the flames nipping at the edge of the cruiser as they bolted toward the side entrance of the station.
More shots cracked, but they were wild. Panicked. The shooter couldn’t see through the smoke.
Not at first anyway.
They were just feet from the door when the wind shifted, thinning the smoke, and a shot cracked through the air. Hallie grunted, staggering mid-stride as the bullet struck her shoulder.
“Hallie!” Lily grabbed her, dragging her down behind a parked cruiser. Griff dived in beside them, heart pounding, adrenaline crashing hard in his veins.
Blood soaked through Hallie’s coat. She was still conscious, biting down on a curse, but the pain was written all over her face.
Griff heard the sirens, the fire department on approach. Jesse cracked open the door a couple of inches, peering out with his weapon raised. “I called it in. They’re two blocks away.”
“Let them know we’ve got an active shooter,” Griff ordered. “And the sheriff’s been hit.”
They were off the path of the burning gasoline now, the fire chasing the trail in another direction. But they weren’t safe. Not with a gunman still out there, watching, waiting.
Lily pulled Hallie in tighter, shielding her as best she could. “Stay with me,” she said, voice low and urgent.
Hallie hissed through her teeth but nodded. “Still here. Not going anywhere.”
The acrid smell of burning fuel hung heavy in the air, the fire hissing and spitting just yards away as smoke curled across the pavement. Hallie was bleeding, pressing her own hand to the wound as Lily leaned over her, trying to help.
Griff kept low, scanning the surrounding buildings, the shadows, the rooftops.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said, voice low, steady. “The EMTs and fire department can’t move in with an active shooter on scene. Not until it’s clear.”
Lily swore under her breath, eyes flicking toward the flames, then the shadows.
Jesse cracked open the station door and tried to step out. Another shot cracked, striking the doorframe just inches from his shoulder. He ducked back with a frustrated grunt.
“Dammit,” Jesse muttered from inside, trying to peek through the narrow opening of the door.
Griff crouched lower, mind working fast. “I think he’s on the roof of the antiques shop. It’s the only angle that makes sense for that shot. And he’s not spraying. He’s picking targets.”
Lily’s gaze followed his line of sight, and she gave a tense nod. “So what do we do?”
“I’m going to the back of the lot,” Griff said. “If I can cut around, use the alley, I can come up on the shop from behind. There’s probably a ladder or stairs on the rear side. If he’s up there, I’ll see him.”
Lily’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going up on the roof alone?”
“Someone has to clear the way. Fire’s still spreading, and Hallie needs help. You stay with her. Keep pressure on the wound.”
Hallie was pale, but conscious, jaw locked against the pain. She gave him a nod. “Go.”
Griff looked at Lily. Her hand was still on Hallie’s shoulder, her other hovering near her weapon. She hated this plan, he could tell. But she didn’t argue.
“Be careful,” she said, eyes locking with his.
He nodded once and slid along the concrete barrier, then broke into a low sprint toward the edge of the lot, disappearing into the smoke and shadows. Griff hugged the side of the building and pulled out his phone, tapping out a quick message to Jesse.
Need a distraction. Open the door. Make him look your way.
Seconds later, the door to the station cracked open again. Jesse peered out halfway, lifting his arm like he might fire, then ducked back in just as another shot ripped through the smoke and slammed into the metal frame.
Griff didn’t wait.
He moved fast and low, weaving between the parked cruisers and civilian cars, staying beneath the gunman’s line of sight.
The heat from the nearby fire licked at his back, but the smoke gave him cover.
His boots crunched over glass and gravel, the sound nearly swallowed by the wail of sirens and the sharp crack of another shot. Thankfully, not aimed his way.
He reached the far end of the lot where the shadows grew thick, the pavement giving way to dry grass, gnarled shrubs, and a line of bare trees.
Beyond that stood a row of small buildings and outbuildings.
Storage units, a shed, the back of an auto repair shop.
The antique store was nestled in the middle, its old brick exterior dimly lit by the glow of the fires behind him.
Griff paused behind a thick cluster of hedges, scanning the back of the antique shop. There. A metal access ladder, bolted to the brick. It looked rusted but intact, probably used by maintenance crews. It would get him to the roof if he could climb it without drawing fire.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the front lot. Another shot rang out. Jesse, still doing his job, keeping the shooter’s attention.
That’s it. Keep him focused.
Griff adjusted his grip on his weapon and moved, slipping through the last patch of brush until he was flush with the base of the antique shop’s back wall. The air here was colder, still laced with the bite of smoke, but quieter.
He looked up at the ladder and started to climb. Moving fast but with each step feeling as if it took a lifetime or two. Then, the metal rung creaked beneath Griff’s boot as he reached the top of the ladder. He froze.
Too late.
The gunman, crouched near the front edge of the roof with the rifle braced against a vent pipe, pivoted sharply at the sound.
Griff fired twice.
The first bullet slammed into the man’s gut, spinning him halfway around.
The second tore through his kneecap with a sickening crack.
The gunman screamed and fired in return, the muzzle flash flaring like a mini explosion.
Griff ducked hard, his shoulder slamming into the ladder, and he nearly lost his grip.
The shot punched through the bricks just above his head.
The fall wouldn’t kill him, but if the guy limped to the edge and got a clear shot, Griff wouldn’t get a second chance. He pressed himself flat to the ladder, heart hammering, listening for movement above.
Then—another shot. This one from below. Not aimed at the roof, but into the sky.
Jesse.
The shot drew the gunman’s attention. Griff heard the scuff of a foot dragging against the roof surface, a guttural moan of pain as the shooter tried to shift positions again.
Griff risked it.
He swung up and over the lip of the roof, raised his weapon, and took the shot. This time it went through the shooter’s hand. The rifle clattered to the rooftop as the man cried out and collapsed in a groaning heap.
Griff surged forward, kicked the weapon far from reach, and dropped into a low crouch beside him. The guy was late thirties, close-cropped beard, buzzed dark hair. Strain lined his face, twisted with pain.
“Who are you?” Griff demanded, gun trained on the man’s face.
The shooter’s mouth tightened, blood bubbling from his lips. “Judd… Connor.”
“Who hired you?” Griff snapped. “Where’s the kid?”
The man coughed, turned his head like he was going to spit blood. He stayed quiet.
Griff leaned in lower, his tone colder than steel. “You’re bleeding out. I could sit here and watch it happen. Let you die. For what? A paycheck? You really want to die for someone else’s secret?”
Judd’s eyes flickered. His lips parted in a hoarse whisper. “Storage room. Sewing shop… two blocks up.”
“Is he alive?”
A shaky nod.
Griff knelt beside the wounded gunman, ignoring the man’s groans as he tightened zip ties around his wrists and ankles.
The guy wasn’t going anywhere—his knee was blown out, his gut was bleeding—but Griff secured him anyway.
Then he grabbed the phone clipped to the man’s belt and shoved it in his pocket.
He stood, gave the man one last hard look, and headed for the ladder. By the time his boots hit the ground, he was already moving fast. He cut across the lot and reached Lily and Hallie behind cover.
“Shooter’s down,” he said, breathing hard. “Call in the fire team and EMTs. It’s clear.”
Hallie raised her radio to call it in. Jesse came through the station door, took one look at Hallie, and rushed to her side, kneeling down to check her bleeding shoulder as he relayed the all-clear to the EMTs and fire team.
Griff turned to Lily. “The shooter said Caleb is up the street at the sewing shop.”
Before he’d even finished the last words, Lily was already on her feet, eyes fierce, jaw set.
“Let’s go get Caleb,” she said.
Griff gave a tight nod, and they took off toward Main Street.
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