Chapter 5
Harley just knew in her gut, this was going to go south. As soon as Jericho had dropped to one knee and whispered “find,” a sort of premonition, like ice, slid through her.
So she took off after Jericho, who ran after his dog and, of course, when the shot cracked through the brisk air, Harley dropped, her boots skidding on the icy ground at the edge of the SOR camp’s thicket.
And then came the dog’s yelp. Crying. Oh no, no—
She looked up seconds later to see Jericho on his feet, scrambling into the forest, searching for his wounded dog.
Aw, and now he was going to get shot.
She raced after Jericho, her legs pumping, her coat snagging on spruce branches as she followed him into the dense trees.
Faintly, she heard Deke shouting, but she ignored him and shot out into a clearing behind the mess hall that contained old oil drums, a rusty dumpster, and . . . Jericho.
Holding his dog. The animal trembled, a low whine escaping his throat.
She raced up to them. “Is he okay?”
Orlando pressed against Jericho’s leg, his ears flat, his tail tucked, trembling. Poor thing.
“I think so,” Jericho said, his voice rough, his hands running over the dog’s body, checking for injuries. “He’s scared—aw, I shouldn’t have brought him out here.”
She frowned but didn’t respond, her gaze searching the area for the shooter.
There. She spotted him—a dark figure sprinting down a trail behind the mess hall, his coat flapping, a shotgun in hand, his boots kicking up snow as he headed for the creek bed.
Oh no, he wasn’t getting away. Not this time.
She took off.
“Harley, stop!” Jericho yelled. “Wait for backup!”
No time. She didn’t waste her breath, now burning in her chest, her gaze locked on Mars as he disappeared around a Quonset building that sat in the middle of what looked like a vehicle graveyard. The hut’s shattered windows sent shards of light into the morning.
She veered right, cutting through the camp’s machine area—rusted bulldozers, a dented pickup with a shattered windshield, a pile of old tires. The scent of rust and oil hung thick in the air.
Beyond that, a great wall of forest would hide Mars forever. Or at least until they could track him down at another camp.
Or he committed another felony.
Enough.
“Stop! There’s nowhere to go!”
Mars glanced back, turned, and she dove behind a dented station wagon as a shot pinged against the metal.
One shot to go, if he’d had one in the chamber and two in the magazine.
After a second, she popped her head up and spotted him again fleeing, his head turning to scan for pursuit.
She, too, took off. Her boots slipped on a frozen oil slick, her hand catching the station wagon’s back hatch.
He had nearly reached the forest.
She raised her Glock. “Mars, stop!”
He spun, his shotgun swinging up.
And then he smiled. Or maybe it was a snarl—hard to tell from here. “Is that you, Harley Tatum? Ready for round two?”
The recognition jerked her, just a second.
He pulled the trigger.
The shotgun boomed.
She should have ducked, or fell, but shock stilled her. The buckshot slammed into her chest, the impact a sledgehammer against her vest.
She flew backward, her body hitting the wagon, crashing to the earth.
Her breath whooshed out, the pain exploding out of her.
She lay in the snow, unmoving, dazed, the world spinning.
Breathe. But her entire body had seized.
Her vision swam, the sunlight fracturing in her eyes. Her Glock fell away, the acrid taste of blood filled her mouth.
Breathe!
Her heart pounded, one painful punch at a time, so she was still alive, but—
“Harley!”
Jericho’s voice burst from behind her, cluttered with more shouting and feet pounding on the snow.
“Oh my! Harley!” He landed beside her, arching over her.
And now, finally, she wheezed in a breath. Hard and fast and her entire body convulsed with fire.
“Are you shot?”
She wanted to nod, but C’mon, breathe! consumed her as she took another gulp of air. Oh, more fire. She groaned.
He clearly wasn’t waiting—he pulled open her jacket, scanned her vest. “She’s hit,” he shouted to someone. He met her eyes then, holding hers, reaching in.
Jericho.
She’d forgotten the power he possessed to pull her back from her chaos, to grab her up and right her, slow her breathing. To make her feel as if the entire world might slow down, all the way to peace. And stillness. And . . .
Love?
Maybe for him too, because emotion flashed into his eyes a second before he looked away. His voice emerged ragged, almost broken. “We need a medic!”
Stupid. No medics out here, but . . . right . . . he’d been in the military, . . . so . . .
“Harley, hang on.” He slipped his hand under her neck. Then he pressed his fingers to her carotid artery. “She’s in tachycardia!”
Her vision blurred, her head throbbing, the world tilting as she blinked up at him, the sunlight glinting off his painfully handsome face, an aura of strength emanating off him.
Shoot, any strength she possessed to hold onto her fury at him simply loosed, shook away, leaving just the residue of regret.
And now he turned blurry—no, she wanted . . . she wasn’t ready—
“Harley,” he growled. “Don’t you stroke out on me.”
He unzipped her vest, pulled it open.
I’m okay. She wanted to say it, but the words caught, burning in her throat.
More shouts now, but she couldn’t distinguish the voices.
He scooped up snow. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for—
He dumped the snow onto her chest. The cold shocked her, caught her breath. What the—
The chill jerked her awake, long enough to see Crew run up. “What are you doing?”
“Her pulse is racing,” Jericho said. “Heart’s going too fast. I need more snow. Diving reflex—it’ll slow her heart.”
Nearby, Orlando whined, and Jericho’s gaze moved off her. Then back. “We need more snow,” he said to Crew. Then, to her, “This is probably going to hurt.”
Oh it already did. And it had nothing to do with being shot in the chest.
Well, mostly.
Above her, Crew pressed a snow-filled scarf to her forehead, the icy chill a shock against her skin, the faint scent of frost and wool filling her nose. Her breath hitched, her pulse thunder in her ears, but slowing slightly, the pounding easing.
But the dizziness swelled over her, her head throbbing, the world careening.
“I think I’m going to . . .”
Her vision darkened, the sunlight fading, the cold seeping into her bones as consciousness slipped away, Jericho’s voice a distant echo. “HT, stay with me! Stay with me!”
OH, HE WAS A FOOL.
The fluorescent lights of Copper Mountain Medical buzzed overhead, each flicker drilling into Jericho’s skull as he paced the length of the waiting room.
Six steps to the vending machine. Six steps back to the window overlooking the parking lot, where fresh snow drifted down, light, like grace upon the day.
So much grace.
He wasn’t unaware of the fact that things could have gone desperately wrong if Harley hadn’t been wearing her vest.
A vest she’d barely agreed to wear as they’d stopped by the gear room at the sheriff’s department. Her mumbling hadn’t been lost on him, thank you. But then again, she’d always been painfully too willing to barge into danger without a second thought.
He was destined to watch her die. He needed to find Mars and flee town before that happened. Never mind her jaded, apparently accurate words. “Mr. Watch Me Run.”
Yeppers. Brace yourself for the windburn, honey.
He scanned the tree line with each return to the window.
For now, Mars was still out there.
Orlando whined from his spot near Jericho’s feet, the Bernedoodle’s black-and-brown curls matted, his head in his paws, his ears flickering at every sound.
The poor dog liked the smells and sounds of the hospital about as much as Jericho did, clearly.
His brown eyes darted to every sound—the squeak of a nurse’s sneakers down the hall, the clatter of a tray, the faint hum of a heater rattling in the corner.
Really, the dog hadn’t stopped shaking since they’d loaded Harley into one of the SUVs and brought her here.
“I know, boy,” Jericho said, leaning toward him, his hand running over Orlando’s broad head, the fur warm under his palm. “This is on me. I should have kept you on lead.”
Or maybe said a hardy N-O to the idea of sending a K9 SAR dog after a killer. What had he been thinking?
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Deke.
“Yeah?” Jericho said, his gaze flicking to the double doors leading to the exam rooms.
“The trail behind the camp led to a cabin off Murphy Creek Road,” Deke said. “Found fresh tire tracks—we think he stole a car. He’s on the move.”
Jericho’s jaw tightened. “Any idea where?”
“No. I put a BOLO out, but . . .”
“Yeah. He’s gone,” Jericho said. “Until he doesn’t want to be.”
“Mm-hmm. Stevie is headed back to Anchorage for now, and Rio is going to work his local informants, but I think it’s a waiting game until we get a lead. Or he makes a move. How’s Harley?”
“Still being checked out.” Jericho’s gaze went back to the double doors, his brain stuck on the image of Harley sprawled in the snow—her blond hair spilling over the icy ground, her golden-brown eyes fluttering shut.
And, still ringing in his ears, his own desperate shouting.
Okay, so he’d been a little panicked.
In truth, it was sort of his MO around her.
“Keep me posted,” Deke said. “She’ll be okay. She’s tough.”
Yeah, that was the problem. “I will.” Jericho pocketed the phone.
He didn’t want to give voice to the idea that Mars’s next move would be in vengeance against Harley. Because he, too, heard the man shout, right before he shot her. “Is that you, Harley Tatum? Ready for round two?”
He’d turned bone cold. Still hadn’t warmed up.
The double doors swung open, and Dr. Ellis stepped out, her white coat crisp, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, a clipboard in her hand. “Jericho.”
He got up and walked over.
Her steady gaze met his. “Harley’s going to be fine.”
The vise around Jericho’s chest loosened, his breath escaping in a rush. “She’s awake?”