Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“Move.” He grabbed Amka and hauled her toward the front tire of her SUV. She tried to speak but didn’t get the chance. He put her on her ass, one hand firm on the back of her neck as he pushed her face down to her legs. “Knees. Stay low.”
Amka folded without resistance, rain soaking her hair, water running in streams over her shoulders.
May scrambled toward the rear tire, dragging Wyland with her. He slipped once in the mud, and she pulled harder, gritting her teeth. Another shot shattered the rear window of the vehicle. Glass scattered over the pavement, slick and invisible. The next shot hit the tavern’s window.
Christian didn’t flinch. He crouched, yanked his phone from his back pocket, and called without even checking the screen.
His brother grumbled in answer. “What the hell? It’s two in the morning.”
“Shots fired at Sam’s Tavern. Sniper across the street.”
“I’m coming,” Brock answered. The line went dead.
Christian stowed the phone and pulled the weapon from beneath his jacket.
“You’re carrying a gun?” May shouted from her crouch, voice nearly lost in the roar of the rain.
“I always carry a gun,” he said.
Wyland fumbled in his coat and came up with a soaked Ruger. “Ditto, buddy.”
May reached over and yanked it from his hand. “You’ve been drinking.”
Christian didn’t comment. He was already scanning. There was no cover—nothing but broken remains of the storage building, two half-exposed vehicles, and a town that had gone eerily still except for the downpour. Moonlight barely cut through the clouds now, just flashes in between cracks.
The rain was unrelenting. Cold. Hard. Every breath was wet air and sound.
Christian moved like the chaos didn’t touch him. He positioned himself past the front tire, calculating angles in his head. This was his element, like it or not. Water rolled down his face and soaked into his collar. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just listened.
Another shot fired. Close. Maybe hit the alley next to the tavern.
He held up a hand, flat, steady. No one moved. He'd decide when. He'd decide how.
Nobody was dying tonight.
He lifted his head just enough to see over the hood. Rain hit him sideways, cold and needle-sharp, blurring his vision and slicking his hands. The storm had worsened. The wind shoved at the vehicles, and water flowed in muddy rivers along the curb. The dark was absolute, broken only by the occasional flicker from the floodlight above Sam’s back entrance.
Another shot cracked, closer this time, and sparked against the wet asphalt.
Christian dropped back behind the Jeep. He wasn’t guessing anymore. The shooter perched on the roof of the old cineplex across the street, Moosejaw Cinemas, where Tuesday tickets cost three bucks and the popcorn tasted like lighter fluid. The last movie had probably ended around eleven and the patrons were long gone. Now the theater was just dark windows and peeling paint, but the building had the elevation and cover a shooter would want.
He shifted up again and fired three shots, fast and clean. They hit the siding just above the ticket booth awning. Right where they should.
Silence followed.
He turned toward Amka, who hadn’t moved. She sat curled against the front tire, rain soaking through her clothes. Her knees were up, her face down. “You okay?” he asked.
“No,” she said, voice muffled. Then she looked up. “Is he gone?”
“Not yet. Don’t move.”
Wyland sneezed, wet and loud.
May tightened her grip on him. “What should we do?”
Christian checked the math. “Is anybody hit inside?” he yelled.
“No,” Daisy called out. “We’re all behind the bar now.”
He extended his hand to May. “You keep Wyland down as close to that tire as you can. Give me the Ruger.”
May passed it to him, wet and slippery. It was double-action and already chambered. He checked anyway. Six rounds. Compact frame, short barrel, nothing fancy.
He handed the gun to Amka. “Position the weapon on the hood. Keep your head and shoulders down. Aim straight up at the roof of the Moosejaw. Make sure you aim up there and keep down. Got it?”
She nodded. Her hair was soaked, plastered to her cheeks. Her hands shook as she took the pistol, but she held it like she’d used one before.
“Whatever you do, don’t aim lower,” Christian said.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Run across the street. You’re covering me.”
Her eyes widened. “Christian, that’s not—”
“Amka.” His tone stopped her cold.
She swallowed. “Okay. And…if I miss?”
“You don’t have to hit anything but the building, baby. You’re just providing cover.”
She swallowed. “Okay.” She turned on her knees, staying under the cover of the hood, and positioned herself with care. The Ruger rested against the metal, angled up. Her arms braced. The gun trembled slightly, but her aim was true. “Tell me when,” she whispered.
Christian inhaled, gaze fixed on the theater roof. He took a deep breath, glancing at her and then reaching over and covering her hands with his, nudging the barrel up half an inch. The angle had to be right. The last thing he needed was a bullet in the ribs from the only person trying to help.