Its sharp yelp pleases me.
I spin toward Britta, expecting her to be stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her immobile dog, but instead a tall black figure tackles me in the gut, knocking me backward to the ground, and I drop my hammer. I wheeze for breath, but my lungs won’t function. Britta scrambles to sit on my chest as I suffocate. Stars explode in my eyes as a blow knocks my jaw to the side.
And again.
This is wrong! It’s all going wrong!
I taste blood, and a high wail erupts from my throat as my lungs get air. Suddenly her weight is gone from my chest and I roll to my side, still struggling for normal breaths. She kicks me twice in the groin and the blinding pain shoots its way to my head and detonates. I curl into a ball, no breath left to scream. I try to close my jaw, and hot fire shoots from its joints into my brain.
My entire nervous system throbs as I lie in the rain.
I hate her. I hate my father. I hate everyone.
Coughs rack my body, nearly making me vomit, and I feel—and hear—my jaw slip back to the proper place in its joints, creating another explosion of pain that vanishes as quickly as it came.
Blessed sensation of nothing. In my jaw, anyway.
I’m still in a ball, waiting for the pounding in my groin to subside. I manage a blurry, wet look around me. Two feet away, my hammer taunts me from the dirt. At this moment, it might as well be a hundred feet away. Britta and her dog are gone.
I’m not giving up.
Time for plan B.
FORTY-FOUR
Mercy sat in her Tahoe, tapping her fingers on her steering wheel, waiting for Truman.
She had parked out of sight of Britta’s home on its long driveway, and the outside lights of the house were on, creating a glow around the bend of the drive. The rain pounded louder on her roof, and she spotted a flash of lightning in the darkening sky. She counted the seconds, waiting for the thunder.
The storm was five miles away.
More lightning flashed, and she saw Britta’s unmistakable figure running awkwardly across the flatland for her home. Something bulky was in her arms, and she ran out of Mercy’s view. Mercy closed her eyes, seeing Britta’s hunched silhouette in her mind. She’s scared.
Mercy started her vehicle, putting her promise to Truman out of her head.
Something is up.
She parked in front of the house just as Britta dashed through the front door and slammed it behind her. Mercy took the steps two at a time and pounded on the door. “Britta? What happened?”
The door flew open, and Britta grabbed Mercy’s arm and jerked her inside the house. She frantically slid the bolts of the door, her chest heaving.
A soaking-wet Zara lay panting on the floor. Britta dropped to her knees beside her dog, gently touching Zara’s face.
Zara was the bundle in her arms.
Britta was dressed for running. Mud covered her legs, and her pale eyes were wide in her face.
Mercy knelt beside her, studying the dog. “What happened?” she asked again.
“Attack. He attacked my dog,” Britta wheezed.
Alarm shot through Mercy, but she didn’t see blood on the dog. Zara’s eyes were open, and her tongue hung out as she breathed, but she didn’t get up.
How could Britta run with the heavy dog?
Determination.
“Who attacked? A coyote?” Mercy asked.
“No! A man. He was waiting for us by the rocks. He leaped out and kicked Zara in the ribs.”
Mercy realized rain wasn’t the only moisture on Britta’s face.
“I tackled him, but I’m afraid he’ll come here next.” Determination swept the tall woman’s face. “I’ll be ready for him.”
Ryan Moody? “Britta, did you get a look at the guy?”
“It was getting dark, but he wore a heavy black coat and camo pants. He wasn’t old. Dark hair.” She sucked in a breath, studying her dog. “He had a rifle over one shoulder.”
Mercy stood, tension running through her veins. “We need to get out of here. I’ll drive. You grab Zara, and we’ll go to a vet.”
“She might have broken ribs—”
“Pick her up,” Mercy ordered. “You’ve got a nut outside with a gun.”
“I can hold him off. This place is—”
“Now. We’re leaving now!” Mercy bent over to lift the dog. If Britta wouldn’t do it, she would.
“I’ve got her.” Britta scooped up the dog, who whined. “Shhh, girl. We’ll get you better.” She headed toward the door. “Fucking asshole,” she muttered as Mercy held the door open for her.
Mercy knew the curse wasn’t aimed at her.
She started to follow Britta across the porch, but the woman shrieked and collapsed as a gunshot thundered, and Mercy dropped to her stomach. Britta writhed as blood spurted from her thigh, and she clutched Zara to her chest, the dog yipping in pain. Mercy shot forward and grabbed the neck of Britta’s jacket. On her hands and knees Mercy strained to drag the woman and the dog back into the house. “Push with your foot,” Mercy hissed.
Britta planted her left foot, clenched her teeth, and shoved backward with a moan. Her right leg dragged, and blood still gushed. Mercy threw her body weight into a desperate heave and felt something internal tear in her own damaged leg. Not stopping, she hauled the woman over the threshold and then scooted around to shove Britta’s legs inside. She slammed the door and threw the locks, her heart hammering in her chest. Her injured leg quivered. No time to worry about that now.
“Mercy.” Britta’s eyes were wide with pain.
“Hang on.” Mercy stripped off her belt and wrapped it around the woman’s thigh, pulling it as tight as she could. The blood flow slowed.
That’s only temporary.
“What is the most secure room in your house?”
“D-d-downstairs bath. Stocked. Reinforced.” Zara was still clasped in Britta’s arms, and Mercy figured that was best for both of them.
“Good,” Mercy muttered. She couldn’t imagine hauling Britta up the stairs. “Are all the windows locked?”
“Yes.”
Not that glass will stop anyone.
Leaving Britta in the center of the living room, she drew her weapon and bent over, darting around the first floor, turning off the lights, and closing the shades. The first floor’s back door was already locked. She glanced in the bathroom and checked the cabinets. Water, food, first aid, a radio, ammo, flashlight, and a Glock. Reinforced door. Good locks. She grabbed the flashlight.
I knew I liked Britta.
She snatched some pillows and throws off the living room furniture and tossed them into the bathroom. She towed Britta slowly across the floor and settled her on the floor of the bathroom, leaving the door open for the moment. “I’m going to call for help.”
“Okay.” Britta closed her eyes, and Mercy shone the light on her wound. The seepage seemed minimal, but she’d left a wide blood trail across the floor. Zara settled in the crook of Britta’s arm, her gaze on Mercy.
“I’m going to take care of your mother,” Mercy promised the dog as she dialed. She gave the 911 operator her location and a rundown on the active shooter.
Then she called Truman.
“Don’t come in!” she ordered as his phone picked up. “Stay out on the road!”
“What’s going on?” Alarm rattled his voice.
“Britta’s been shot, and we’re locked inside her house. I think it’s Ryan Moody who shot her. He’s still outside.” Mercy couldn’t speak fast enough.
“Is she okay?”
“I’ve got a tourniquet on her leg, but it’s still bleeding. She needs to get to a hospital as soon as possible.” Will we make it?
“I’ve pulled over just before turning into her driveway. Did you call it in?”
“Yes,” she panted.
Glass shattered as another gunshot roared. Mercy ducked onto the floor next to Britta, but Ryan had shot out a window in the kitchen. Zara barked at the assault on her home, and Britta hushed her.
“Jesus Christ!” Truman exclaimed. “I heard that shot out here. How far away is your backup?”
“I don’t know.”