Karen let out a short yelp as the truck did a three-sixty. Heart in his throat, Tucker held the steering wheel firmly as the vehicle spun on the icy roads. He eased his foot off the gas, not wanting the brakes to lock up. He’d taken enough defensive driving classes to—
Metal crunched as the SUV rammed into the driver’s side, sending them skidding across the intersection and slamming into a stop sign. He’d disabled the airbags, as he always did on an op, so at least they didn’t deploy. He couldn’t risk one slamming him in the face and stunning him or making it impossible to get to his weapon if he was being attacked. Tensing at the impact, he unstrapped his seat belt and jumped across into Karen’s side of the vehicle. His adrenaline was pumping so hard now he barely felt a thing.
Her eyes were wide with fear, but at least she wasn’t panicking and she didn’t look injured. He’d worry about that later. First, he had to eliminate this threat.
Tucker grabbed the pistol from her and slid the magazine in as a barrage of bullets hit the driver’s-side door and window. The old truck had bullet-resistant windows and was armored, but he didn’t know what kind of firepower their attacker—or attackers—had. He shoved her onto the floorboards, using his body to cover her.
“Stay put, Karen. This truck is armored. You’ll be safe for now. And call Burkhart.” He tried to look through the driver’s-side window, but the glass was spidering out from the impact of the bullets and probably the crash. Same with the windshield.
He needed to get a visual on their attacker. Which meant getting out of the fucking vehicle. He hated leaving her, but he had to keep Karen safe. He’d dragged her into this mess and he’d be damned if she got injured or worse because of him. He knew one thing: this wasn’t the cops and it wasn’t the NSA. Neither would open fire on them like this, not with Karen in the truck with him. This was a brazen attack in broad daylight. Had to be the same asshole—or more likely assholes—who’d set up his team.
She was shaking and her ivory skin had gone a grayish color, but she nodded. “I’ll make the call.”
The firing had stopped, probably because the shooter realized the truck was armored. Which gave Tucker a small window to get outside and go on the offensive.
There was no one waiting to ambush him on the passenger side, so he opened the door and dropped down, his boots thudding faintly against the sidewalk. They were on a quiet street in a residential area, which pissed him off even more about this attack. He’d just seen a traffic sign for a school zone. It hadn’t been flashing and he was certain it was too early for kids to be getting out of school, but coming after him and Karen in a school zone made him want to rip apart whoever was after them even more than he already did.
It was still silent, so he ducked down and looked under the truck. He spotted only one set of feet. Men’s boots. The guy was cautiously moving toward Tucker’s truck. Bold, to do it without cover. Maybe the shooter thought he and Karen had been knocked out during the accident. He was about to find out how very wrong he was.
Closer, closer, closer— He fired at the man’s ankles, hitting first the left, then the right. Hitting the bone like that would hurt like a motherfucker and prevent him from being able to walk.
The man screamed at the unexpected sharp pain. His bones had probably splintered, the damage vicious. Tucker felt a perverse pleasure at the sound of the guy’s agony.
The man lay on the ground on his side, a MAC-10 in one of his hands as he tried to push up. Whoever had trained this guy had done a piss-poor job. This attack was bold, yes, but it was weak.
In a situation like this it was doubtful the shooter knew who’d hired him, but since there was a possibility he did, Tucker wanted him alive. He had started to move, planning to approach him from the rear of the truck, when the guy suddenly shifted positions, rolling onto his side, weapon clutched tightly in his hand.
The second the man’s gaze locked on Tucker’s under the truck, Tucker fired, hitting him twice center mass, then once in the head in case he was wearing body armor. Tucker bit back a curse as he stood and scanned his surroundings. There was a vehicle approaching from one of the side streets. Shit, shit, shit.
It was either a civilian or law enforcement—or backup for this guy. None of those options were good. The only thing on Tucker’s side was the damn cold weather. No one was out walking their dog or pushing a stroller in this temperature.
Moving quickly, he rounded the back of the truck and slowly approached the sprawled man. Blood spread under him, the crimson mushrooming out under his body in a macabre pool.
Tucker still had his weapon trained on him, but kept his peripheral on the approaching car. It reversed quickly, the tires squealing as it swiveled in the opposite direction—probably because the driver saw Tucker’s weapon. A civilian, then. Just as well, and better than a freaking cop.
He tapped the guy once in the eye with his boot even though he’d taken a head shot. No movement. It was impossible to fake being dead or unconscious if someone jabbed you in the eye. The body’s reaction was too reflexive. Something he’d learned in the Corps.
He kicked the MAC-10 away, then did a quick check of the man’s body. No ID. He had started to move to the guy’s SUV when he heard a shuffling behind him. Weapon raised, he swiveled but immediately lowered it.
Karen stepped out from the back of the truck, her ponytail rumpled, her eyes wide, and his laptop bag in hand. “The closest any of my people are is twenty-five minutes out.” Even as she spoke, multiple sirens blared in the distance.
He didn’t know that they were intended for him, but he figured they were. Now that he’d been spotted in public, soon there would be a citywide manhunt out for him—if there wasn’t already.
Tucker didn’t like leaving Karen, not when this guy had been coming for both of them. Tucker might have been the target, but it was clear the killer hadn’t cared if she was killed in the cross fire. “Give me your phone.”
She seemed startled but handed it over. He snapped a few pictures of the dead guy, then turned her phone off and took out the battery. “I’ve gotta go. Twenty-five minutes is too long. You can stay or come with me. I don’t like leaving you to the locals, because I don’t know who to trust. My parents’ phone must have been under surveillance. They must have tracked us using my burner.” Something he’d considered before making the call to them, but he’d also tossed the cell out the window immediately after placing the call. No one should have been able to tail them. So if someone tracked his throwaway phone, they’d have had to have someone in the direct vicinity of Tucker. Which was a lucky—or unlucky for the dead guy—break for the people after Tucker. He sure as hell wouldn’t make a mistake like that again.
Karen looked at the bullet-riddled, destroyed truck, then at the dead guy. She swallowed. “That guy wanted both of us dead.”
It was certainly possible. When she met his gaze again, he knew she was coming with him. Even though she’d probably be safer away from him, a fierce protectiveness jumped in Tucker’s chest at the thought of taking care of her. He’d gotten her into this mess and damn it, he wanted to be the one to keep her safe, to stop this threat once and for all. And he couldn’t get past how someone had tracked them so damn fast. He could easily guess how they’d done it, but it had been too fast. It could have been the DEA, but it could have been another agency. What if whoever was behind this had the cops on their payroll too? There were too many unknown variables.