“Yes,” Gideon said grimly, because the engine’s rattle was growing louder. And now plumes of smoke were rising from the edges of the hood. “Shit.”
They were only twenty minutes from Gale Danton’s house. But that might as well have been in the middle of freaking nowhere because his car had been sabotaged, leaving them vulnerable. Very fucking vulnerable.
Gideon did a U-turn and pulled the car to the narrow shoulder facing back toward Macdoel. This way he could look at the engine and Daisy would have some protection from whoever had intended to stop them here. The drop-off was steep, but it could have been far worse. “If bullets start flying, slide down the hill there and keep your head down.”
Daisy was sliding Brutus’s bag over her shoulder. “What about you?”
“Just do it,” he snapped, feeling true fear for the first time in a long time. If anything happened to him, Daisy would be . . . dead. Like Trish. And Eileen. And six other women.
He drew his weapon from its holster as he got out of the car and popped the hood. Smoke billowed from the engine, the stench of burned rubber and bleach enough to make his eyes tear. Someone had put that bleach in his gas tank while they’d been in Danton’s house. Someone who’d wanted them to stop here.
And if it was Danton himself? No, the man couldn’t have done it. He’d been in the house with them, within their sight except for the moments he’d stepped away to get their coffee. Not long enough to dump anything into my gas tank.
Didn’t mean he didn’t have someone else do it, though.
Gideon moved to the trunk to get his rifle. He needed to be ready. Just in case.
The shot registered as burning pain shot up his right arm into his shoulder. “Fuck,” he bit out, grabbing the rifle, then rolling to the ground, off the road. He slid down the hill, where Daisy waited anxiously.
The hill was covered in snow. So now he was bleeding and wet. Great.
“You’re hit,” she said.
“Not badly.” It wasn’t quite a lie. It hurt like a bitch, but he’d had worse. He got the rifle into position, but it was awkward using his left hand. Because the fingers of his right hand were slippery with blood and . . . not moving. That’s not good. That’s not good at all.
It was then that he realized his handgun had slipped from his fingers. He’d lost his service weapon. Fuck it. He shifted the rifle to his left shoulder, using the embankment to prop up the barrel. But the angle was going to be wrong.
“Give it to me,” Daisy commanded, then snatched the rifle away. Before he could blink, she was pushing her way back up the hill on her stomach, commando-style through the snow, her Brutus bag slung around to her back.
“Daisy!” He scrambled behind her, grabbing at her leg. “Do not do this!”
“You’re hit,” she said calmly. “I’m not. Let go of my leg, Gideon. I’m a good shot.”
He remembered what she’d said about her father training her to shoot. He wasn’t sure how far away their shooter was, much less how good she actually was.
A car roared by, spraying a volley of gunfire through the open passenger window.
Gideon held on to her leg tighter, pulling her down the hill, and she kicked at him, startling him enough that she was able to yank herself free. He grabbed her again, and she kicked at him again, harder this time, sending him sliding a few feet down the hillside, dragging her with him.
“I’m not going to dance in the fucking road, Gideon. For God’s sake, let me go!”
Another shot came flying over their heads, this time from the far right. The shooter had turned around and was coming back for another attack.
Gideon let Daisy go, wiping the snow from the rocks so that he could get a decent grip, and started the rather daunting task of hauling himself up one-handed. He’d done this in training, but he hadn’t been shot then. He tried clenching his right hand into a fist, but his fingers hung limply at his side. Shit.
He watched as she regained her position at the top of the hill, steadying herself on a small outcropping of rock so that she was just able to see over the edge, the rifle against her shoulder. “He’s driving a beige car. I saw it in the bus station lot,” she said.
Shit. Motherfucking shit. “I saw it following us last night, but it turned the other way when we exited at Redding.”
“Well, he somehow found us,” she said grimly, still holding the rifle in ready mode.
Gideon edged upward until he could finally see. The beige car was coming closer, slowing to a crawl as it weaved dangerously along the road. The driver wouldn’t be able to see them from this angle as they were shielded by Gideon’s car.
He could just see a handgun being held out of the open driver’s-side window, but the person inside had ducked down—thus the dangerous weaving. “Are you waiting for something special to happen before you shoot him?” he asked with exaggerated patience. “Or maybe you’re waiting for him to drive off the road and let the hill take care of him? Just give me the damn rifle already.”
She didn’t spare him a glance. “I want to get his gun out of his hand. Be quiet. You’re distracting me.”
“The gun,” he muttered. “Out of his hand. You realize that only happens in movies?”
“I said, be quiet,” she hissed.
He glanced away from the approaching beige car to study Daisy’s profile. She was truly beautiful, all ferocity and focus. She held the rifle like an extension of her own arm.
He contemplated grabbing the rifle, but there was no way he was going to be anything but awkward with his right arm useless and his feet slipping in the snow, and she was cool, collected. Ready.
So he bit his tongue and stayed quiet. But not still. Hiking up his knee, he drew his backup from his ankle holster. Not as powerful as his service weapon, but it would do. He hoped.
“Can you shoot with your left hand?” she asked, still calm.
“Not as well as with my right, but still proficient.” Drawing his weapon, he aimed at the shooter’s window as the beige car approached, hoping to get the man’s head or upper body in his sight. But the man stayed down, somehow navigating the car so that it didn’t hit his own as it passed by.
Gideon shifted, positioning his body, so that he’d get a view of the driver’s-side window when the beige car cleared his Camry, but it was Daisy who pulled the trigger first.
He held his breath. And his mouth fell open. To his utter amazement the handgun was on the asphalt and blood dripped down the side of the car, which had turned sharply.
She pulled the trigger again and the windshield turned to opaque pebbles. She’d fired through the open window, hitting the windshield from the inside, the view through it completely blocked. Her third shot hit the back window, shattering it as Gideon watched the car for the moment the shooter tried to escape, but the man was still hunkered down.
She lowered the rifle to the tires and he added his own aim. Together they fired, each shooting the tires on the driver’s side, back and front. Each hitting the tires, all four shots connecting.
“FBI!” Gideon shouted, barely hearing his own voice over the ringing in his ears. It had been a while since he’d fired a weapon without ear protection. “Get out of the car!”
He grabbed on to the tire of his own car and hauled himself up the hill and over the edge of the road, intending to approach the shooter in his car and drag him out of it. Instead he was gritting his teeth against a sudden spear of pain and he felt his body sway.
Get up. Dammit. He pushed himself to stand, his knees seriously wobbling. But it didn’t matter because his demand was answered by the squeal of tires as the beige car sped away, heading toward Redding.
Daisy swung herself up onto the road, and scrambling to her feet, fired several more times at the retreating car. “Goddammit!” She turned to him, frustration all over her face. “I hit those tires. I know I did.”
He breathed through the burning in his arm. “Run-flats,” he gritted out. “They’re—”
“I know what they are,” she spat. “Tires with reinforced sidewalls. He’ll be able to drive for fifty miles on those things. At least he won’t be able to see where he’s going.” Then her eyes widened as her gaze took him in. “Oh shit. Gideon. You said it wasn’t bad.”
He tried to smile, but only managed a grimace. “I’ve had worse.”
She glared at him, but her touch was gentle as she led him around his car, opening the back driver’s-side door. “Sit down before you fall down.”
He obeyed wordlessly. His head was spinning. He didn’t need to look at his arm to know he was bleeding. Badly. “My gun. I dropped it on the road. Near the trunk.”
“I’ll get it in a minute.” Laying the rifle down on the floor of his car, she grabbed her phone from her pocket and punched some numbers, then put the phone on speaker.
“This is 911. What is your emergency?”
“We have a gunshot victim on California 97, about twenty miles southwest of Macdoel. How fast can we get medical assistance?”
“I’ll call it in,” the operator said but sounded doubtful. “Let me see who’s available.”