“We’ll be changing the photos as horses come and go and the ranch continues to grow. We’ll be using the camera a lot more than once.”
She loved it when he said we, as if they were a team, as if she were important to him. It was stupid. She had no idea how long she would be staying on the ranch, how long before he grew tired of her and was ready to move on.
He’d made no promises, never hinted at a long-term relationship. Whatever happened, she’d do a good job for him while she was there.
She ended up choosing a Canon EOS Rebel DSLR camera, which came with an extra lens. They also purchased a sturdy tripod, flash attachment, a light boom arm stand, filters, memory cards, additional batteries, and a canvas gadget bag.
They were walking out of the shop, their arms full of merchandise, when one of her white hoop earrings fell off and bounced on the sidewalk. As Josh bent down to pick it up, a gunshot echoed and a chip flew out of the stucco building exactly where his head had just been.
“Get down!” Camera gear went flying, hitting the sidewalk and scattering all over as Josh shoved her to the ground, shielding her with his body. Moving together, they crab-walked, scrambled, and crawled to reach cover behind the front wheel of the closest vehicle, a silver SUV parked next to the truck.
“Stay here!” Josh pulled his pistol from the holster at his waist. “Call 9-1-1!”
Her purse, which had survived the fall, still hung from the strap over her shoulder. Her hands shook as she dug out her disposable phone and hit the emergency call number she had programmed into her cell.
Staying low, Josh peered around the front of the vehicle. Another shot echoed, slammed into the hood, and he moved, firing off several rounds, running hard to a new location.
The dispatcher answered. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
Her heart was hammering, her palms sweating. “Someone is . . . is shooting at us. We’re in front of McFarland’s Camera store in Garland. We need help!”
Shots echoed. Josh returned fire and moved again, rolled behind a sturdy trash can, popped up, fired, and moved.
“Stay on the line, ma’am. I’ve got help on the way.”
She was trembling. “I think the man shooting at us is . . . is wanted by the FBI. Could you call Agent Quinn Taggart? Tell him it’s Victoria Bradford and Joshua Cain.”
“All right. Please, stay on the line, ma’am.”
Tory gripped the phone tighter as Josh fired again and ran toward the assailant, rapidly closing the distance between them. Tory couldn’t breathe. She thought of the soldiers who had been killed and said a silent prayer for Josh. Then she prayed the police would get there quickly.
“Please, God . . . please . . .”
Josh crouched low. He knew exactly who the shooter was—the same man who had murdered Pete and Coy. The terrorist who wanted vengeance for the death of the mullah’s Al-Qaeda son.
Josh fired toward the spot where the last shot had come from. The shooter was on the move, searching for a new position, but he hadn’t given up yet. Josh caught a flash of color between two parked cars on the opposite side of the parking lot near the grassy meridian. He fired off two rounds and started running, managed to skirt some cars and flatten himself behind the trunk of a tree.
A low hedge ran in front of the vehicles on that side of the lot. Staying low, he ducked behind the hedge. Running along beside it, moving quietly now, he circled around, working to get behind the shooter.
He spotted the man up ahead, tall and thin with a heavy beard, his attention still fixed on Josh’s last position. Josh eased closer. The hedge provided visual cover, but it wouldn’t stop a bullet.
As the shooter prepared to move again, he spotted Josh, whirled, and fired, the bullet tearing through the shrubbery, missing him by inches. Josh fired back, hitting his target in the chest, knocking him backward into the parking lot, his head slamming against the pavement.
It took sheer force of will not to pull off another round, but he wanted the man alive, knew the feds needed the information the terrorist could provide.
Sirens wailed as Josh ran up to the unconscious man lying on his back on the asphalt. Blood poured from a wound in his upper right chest. His breathing was ragged, his mouth open and slack, but he was alive.
Josh kicked his pistol away, crouched and ripped open the man’s white shirt, tore off a strip of fabric, and stuffed it into the wound to slow the bleeding. Sirens wailed. People were pouring out of the shops in the strip mall, beginning to form a circle around them.
Tory knelt beside him. “The police are on the way. The FBI, too. I told them to send an ambulance.”
He nodded as he leaned over and put pressure on the bullet hole to slow the blood flow. Black-and-white patrol cars roared into the parking lot and the doors flew open. Uniformed officers spilled out and ran toward him, guns drawn.
“Dallas police! Put your weapon on the ground and your hands in the air!”
Tory took over, pressing hard on the man’s chest while Josh raised his hands in the air.
“My pistol is holstered at my waist.” A little .380. He wished he’d had his Beretta.
“Keep your hands in the air!” Three officers rushed forward and shoved him to the ground. One of them pulled the pistol out of his holster, then jerked his hands behind his back and locked a pair of cuffs around his wrists.
“My name is Joshua Cain. I’m former marine special ops. I’ve got a carry permit. The injured man is a terrorist wanted by the FBI.”
The cop’s dark eyebrows went up. “The feds are on the way,” he said. He grabbed Josh’s bound arms, helped him roll over and sit up cross-legged on the grass.
“That man tried to kill us,” Tory said to the heavyset balding cop who was eyeing Josh like a criminal. “He murdered two other marines already. Josh was defending himself and me.”
Another siren wailed as it drew near. Josh looked over to see an ambulance pulling into the parking lot. The doors swung open, EMTs jumped out and ran around to the back. In seconds, the paramedics had collected the gear they needed and were on the ground next to the victim, working to save his worthless life.
Tory backed away, her pretty sundress covered in blood. Josh wanted to go to her, comfort her, tell her she was safe and all of this was about to be over, but it wasn’t going to happen right away.
The heavyset cop stayed with her while Josh remained cuffed a few feet away. When half a dozen FBI vehicles roared into the parking lot and slammed on their brakes, Josh breathed a little easier. The big blond man crossing the lot in his direction was a damned fine sight to see.
Taggart stopped to speak to the EMTs, then walked over to Tory. “You all right?” he asked.
“I’m okay. He tried to kill Josh.”
Taggart nodded, continued on over to the officer who stood next to where Josh sat. “Take the cuffs off. Cain’s the victim here.” The cop bent to the task, the handcuffs clanking as they fell into the officer’s hands. Rubbing his wrists, Josh rose to his feet.
“He going to make it?” he asked Taggart, tipping his head toward the man on the gurney being wheeled toward the ambulance.
“Fifty-fifty chance. He’s lucky you only fired one bullet. Nice placement, by the way. Appreciate your restraint.”
He grunted. “With any luck the bastard will live. You’ll get some good intel and he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.”
“With any luck,” Taggart said grimly. “We’re going to need a statement from both of you. Plenty of witnesses so you shouldn’t have any problem.”
Josh nodded. He headed for Tory, opened his arms, and she walked straight into them. He could feel her trembling and his chest clamped down. He drew her a little closer. “You okay?”
She swallowed. “I’m all right.” But she nestled her head on his shoulder and a sob escaped, then another. “He almost killed you.”
“Hey, it’s over. Everything’s going to be okay.”
She tried to hold back tears. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, honey. This is a whole lot worse than a burned-up chicken.”