Chapter 2
Chapter Two
A black motorcycle blasted down the pedestrian-only Main Street, a figure in dark clothing firing an automatic weapon as they passed. Glass shattered inward in a deadly spray. The rapid-fire bursts were deafening in the enclosed space.
Grant’s training overrode everything else. He launched himself over the counter, grabbing Liza and pulling her down. They hit the floor hard, his body covering hers as bullets ripped through the bakery.
The glass showcase exploded. Wood splintered. Pastries and dishes flew through the air. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the space.
Five seconds. Maybe six. Then the motorcycle roared away, the sound fading as quickly as it had come.
Grant stayed down, covering Liza, waiting to see if there’d be a second pass. His ears rang from the gunfire. Something warm dripped down his face—blood from flying glass.
“Blaze!” he yelled.
A groan from outside. “I’m hit.”
Grant did a quick assessment of Liza—unconscious, bleeding from her temple where a metal tray had caught her on the way down, but breathing steadily. He grabbed a clean towel from behind the counter and pressed it against the wound.
Then he pulled out his phone.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Shots fired, Heavenly Delights Bakery, Main Street. Automatic weapon, drive-by on motorcycle. At least two injured including Sheriff O’Hara. Suspect fled north.”
He gave the details rapid-fire—black motorcycle, rider in dark clothing and full-face helmet, automatic weapon, maybe thirty rounds fired. The dispatcher’s voice was calm as she confirmed ambulance and backup were en route.
Grant ended the call and moved to the shattered front of the bakery, staying low.
Main Street was chaos. Tourists scattered, some screaming, others frozen in shock. A few were already filming with their phones. Shop owners peered out from behind locked doors, faces pale.
Blaze sat slumped against one of the wrought-iron tables outside the bakery, one hand pressed to his left shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers. His face was pale but his jaw was set, his other hand already on his radio.
Grant dropped beside him, pulling off his jacket. “How bad?”
“Through and through.” Blaze’s breath came in short pants. “Hurts like hell. Liza?”
“Unconscious, head wound, but breathing.” Grant pressed his jacket against Blaze’s shoulder. “Keep pressure on this.”
“The shooter—”
“Gone. Motorcycle, automatic weapon.” Grant scanned the street. “Ryan Caine.”
Even through the pain, Blaze’s eyes sharpened. “She found you. I thought you said she was a sniper. Precise. Patient.” Blaze grimaced as he shifted position. “That attack was anything but.”
“She was.” Grant’s voice went hard. “A year ago, every attempt was calculated. Surgical. Car bombs with timers. Long-distance shots that missed by inches because she wanted me to know she was there. She was playing a game.” He looked at the shattered bakery.
“As the months went on, the more unstable she became. But this is different. She’s stopped caring about precision.
Stopped caring about collateral damage. Maybe stopped caring whether she lives through it. ”
Blaze’s expression darkened. “That makes her more dangerous.”
“Yeah. A sniper who’s willing to die to take the shot? There’s no defending against that.”
A deputy came running from the direction of the sheriff’s office, weapon drawn, radio crackling. “I heard the shots—” He took in the scene and his face went white.
“Lane.” Blaze’s voice was steady despite the blood loss. “Secure the scene. Get statements from witnesses. Clear the street in case she comes back for another pass.”
“On it.” Lane was already on his radio, his initial shock replaced by training.
An SUV screeched to a halt at the edge of Main Street where the cobblestones met the regular road. A tall, sandy-haired man jumped out, medical bag in hand, and ran toward them with the easy stride of someone used to emergencies.
“Blaze!” He took in the scene with one practiced glance—the shattered bakery, the blood, the chaos. “Where are you hit?”
“Shoulder. Straight through, I think.” Blaze nodded toward the bakery. “Woman inside, unconscious—”
“I’ve got him,” the man said to Grant. “You must be Boone. I’m Colt O’Hara, Blaze’s cousin. Go check on her.”
Grant didn’t need to be told twice. He ran back into the bakery, glass crunching under his boots. Liza lay exactly where he’d left her, the towel pressed to her temple dark with blood.
He knelt beside her, checking her pulse. Strong and steady. Her color was good. The bleeding had slowed. But she needed to wake up.
“Liza.” He touched her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Grant heard the organized chaos outside as Lane coordinated the response, as tourists were moved to safety, as the scene was secured.
He stayed with Liza, one hand on her shoulder, willing her to wake up.
An ambulance arrived at the vehicle access point, and paramedics came running with their equipment. Within minutes, they were assessing Blaze, preparing to transport him.
Colt appeared in the bakery doorway, his hands bloody from treating his cousin. He knelt beside Liza with the calm efficiency of someone who’d seen his share of trauma.
“Talk to me,” he said, already examining her. “What happened?”
“Debris hit her in the head when I pulled her down. She’s been out maybe fifteen minutes.”
Colt’s hands moved quickly—checking pupils, pulse, the wound on her temple. “Pupils equal and reactive. Strong pulse. Respiration normal.” He carefully probed the wound. “Superficial laceration, no sign of skull fracture. Concussion for sure, but vitals are stable.”
“When will she wake up?”
“Soon, hopefully. Head injuries are unpredictable.” Colt pulled gauze from his bag and replaced the blood-soaked towel with a proper bandage. “The ambulance can only take one to the hospital. Blaze needs surgery for that shoulder. But she needs monitoring for the next twenty-four hours.”
“The hospital’s forty-five minutes away.”
“Exactly.” Colt sat back on his heels. “The apartment above the sheriff’s office—Blaze had it reinforced when he started working undercover ops with the DEA. Bulletproof windows, secure entry. I can monitor her there.”
Grant’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and his blood turned to ice.
Unknown number. A photo of Liza from this morning—arms full of boxes, hair blowing in the wind, walking into the bakery.
Below it: Pretty girl. Would hate for her to have an accident.
He showed Colt the screen.
Colt’s expression hardened. “We need to get her to the apartment. Now.”
Outside, the paramedics were loading Blaze onto a gurney. Grant saw a dark-haired woman running toward them—Lily, Blaze’s wife. Her face was pale but composed as she took her husband’s hand.
“I’m okay,” Blaze was telling her. “It’s just a scratch.”
“You got shot, you idiot.” But her voice was gentle as she brushed his hair back from his face.
Blaze caught Grant’s eye over her shoulder. “Keep her safe.”
“I will.”
Grant scooped Liza into his arms. She was tall, solid, but adrenaline made the weight manageable. Her head lolled against his chest, dark hair falling across his arm.
Colt led the way to the sheriff’s office next door, up the reinforced stairs to the apartment above. The door was solid steel, the lock heavy duty. Inside, the space was simple but comfortable—a leather couch, a small kitchen, a bedroom visible through an open door.
Grant laid Liza carefully on the couch. Colt was already pulling out supplies, checking her vitals again.
“Still stable,” he said. “But she needs to wake up soon.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then we transport her to the hospital too.” Colt looked up. “But let’s give it another thirty minutes before we worry.”
He pulled out antiseptic and fresh gauze. “Your turn. Sit.”
Grant sat in the chair across from the couch, his eyes never leaving Liza’s face. Colt worked efficiently, cleaning the cuts on Grant’s face and hands from the flying glass.
“Lane’s coordinating with state police,” Colt said. “This kind of firepower, this bold of an attack—they’ll want to bring in resources.”
“Good.”
“This Ryan Caine. How dangerous is she?”
Grant’s jaw tightened. “Very. She was one of Detroit’s best tactical officers before she went bad. Trained in weapons, hand-to-hand, special operations. No conscience left.”
“And she’s after you because…?”
“Because I arrested the man she loves. Eduardo Diaz—major drug dealer in Detroit. She crossed the line for him, and I turned her in. Then I brought him down. He’s serving life. She’s been trying to kill me ever since.”
Colt applied a bandage to a particularly deep cut on Grant’s cheek. “And now she thinks you and Liza are together?”
Grant looked at Liza’s unconscious face. “We just met. But Caine isn’t sane. In her mind, she could think any number of things.”
Liza stirred. A soft moan escaped her lips, and her hand moved to her head.
Grant was beside her instantly, kneeling by the couch. “Easy. Don’t move too fast.”
Her eyes fluttered open—dark and unfocused at first, then slowly sharpening. “What…?” She looked around, confusion and fear warring on her face. “Where am I?”
“You’re safe,” Grant said, keeping his voice calm. “You’re in the apartment above the sheriff’s office. I’m Grant, remember? And this is Colt O’Hara—he’s a doctor.”
“The bakery.” Her voice was hoarse. “There were gunshots.”
“That’s right.” Grant’s hand found hers. “You got hit with some debris when I pulled you down. You’ve been unconscious for almost half an hour.”
“Blaze?” The worry in her eyes was immediate.
“On his way to the hospital,” Colt said, moving to sit on the coffee table so she could see him without turning her head. “Shoulder wound. He’ll need surgery, but he’s going to be fine.”
Relief washed across her face. “Anyone else?”
“No,” Grant said. “Just you and Blaze.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, processing. When she opened them again, they were clearer, more focused. “I feel like someone used my head for batting practice.”