Daisy handed him the phone. “You want to talk to them, Agent Reynolds?”
He shook his head. “You do it,” he said quietly, because now that the danger to her was past, his adrenaline was crashing fast and he was quickly becoming light-headed.
“Agent Reynolds?” the operator asked. “Who is that and what’s happening?”
“The victim is FBI Special Agent Gideon Reynolds. The shooter is driving a damaged beige sedan—I’m not sure of the make—”
“Chevy,” Gideon interrupted. “Chevy Malibu, 2010.”
“I got that,” the operator said. “Did you get the license plate?”
“No,” Gideon said quietly. God, he was cold. Really cold. This is bad.
He wasn’t surprised to hear Daisy rattle it off. “The car has a shot-out back window, a completely pebbled windshield, and at least two shot-out tires. They’re run-flat tires, so he can go a fair distance, but I don’t see how he can without a windshield. Also, he’s injured. I shot his hand.”
“Got it,” the operator said. “I’ve contacted the sheriff’s office in the next town. They’re on their way.”
“That’s thirty minutes east of here,” he muttered. “Twenty if they floor it.”
“I know,” Daisy said evenly, but she’d grown pale, her gaze fixed on the rapidly growing dark stain on his coat. “Agent Reynolds is bleeding very badly,” she told the operator. “I can call someone who’s closer who may be able to help. I’m going to do that now. I’ll use Agent Reynolds’s phone. I’ll leave you on speaker for now, okay?”
She put the phone on the road next to the rifle, then turned to him. “Where’s that piece of paper that Mr. Danton gave you?”
“My jacket pocket. Inside my coat. But first we need to stop the bleeding. Help me out of my coat.”
“Where are you shot?” she asked.
“Arm. Must have hit an artery. Not good.”
“I figured that out myself.” Carefully she removed his coat, tossing it so that it rested on the back of the driver’s seat. She grimaced at the sight of his suit jacket. “You wear too fucking many clothes, Gideon.”
“Tell me that later,” he said breathlessly.
She glared at him, tears in her eyes. “Shut up,” she whispered. “I’m not going to let you die.”
“I hadn’t planned to. Get the jacket off.”
She obeyed, taking off his suit coat faster than his overcoat, moaning herself when he grunted in pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
“Get my belt. We’ll use it as a tourniquet.”
“Okay. I can do this,” she said firmly. “I can.”
“I know you can.”
“I don’t,” she shot back. Fingers clumsy, she unbuckled his belt and slid it free of his pants, then looped it around his arm, above the bullet hole. “How tight should I pull?”
“Tight,” he grimaced, then groaned when she obeyed again, the pain sending little black spots dancing across his vision. “Like that. Stop for now. Thread the end through the buckle, then loop it under the belt to secure it.”
Hands trembling, she did as he instructed then searched his jacket pocket for the piece of paper with Danton’s phone number and then his overcoat pocket for his phone. “Code,” she demanded, unlocking the phone when he gave it to her, and dialing the man whose house they’d just left. “Hi, it’s Daisy. We were just shot at. Gideon needs your help.” She explained his injury, then listened for another minute, nodding as if Danton could see her. “We applied a tourniquet already. Please get her here as soon as you can. We’re only twenty minutes from your place. Thanks.” She ended the call and pocketed his phone.
“Her?” he asked, too exhausted to demand she give it back.
“Sammie, his daughter. The vet.”
“Not a military vet,” he said with a small smile.
“No.” She wrapped his coat around him. “You’re shivering.”
He was cold through to his bones. “Keep me warm?”
Gripping the rifle in one hand, she rolled her eyes as she carefully pulled his jacket and coat over his shoulders, then pressed up against his left side, sliding her arm over his back. “Does that line ever really work for you, Agent Reynolds?”
“You’re snuggled up against me, so I’d have to say yes.”
She shuddered out a harsh breath. “That was scary,” she whispered.
“And you were a pro.” Ignoring the throbbing in his arm, he kissed the top of her head. “I still can’t believe you shot the gun out of his hand.”
She chuckled weakly. “My father will be proud.”
“So am I.”
She stretched up to kiss his cheek. “That’s more important.”
GRASS LAKE, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1:00 P.M.
She’d shot the fucking gun out of his hand. He stared at his fingers disbelievingly. They were all still there, but he couldn’t move his thumb. The bullet had taken a chunk out of his flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He was spurting blood like a broken hose.
Sitting there, in the car, in shock, he’d wrapped the wound in his scarf. And it was good he’d dipped his head to do so because the next shot came through the windshield, the one after that through the back window. He’d thought the shooter was the Fed. He’d been cursing the damn Fed.
Until Daisy had appeared, rifle in her hands.
She’d shot him?
He was still stunned as he raced down the highway on two good tires and two flats. He’d never been so glad to have invested in the run-flat tires. Otherwise he would have been dead in the water.
She was trying to get me out of the car. She was trying to kill me.
That was not nice.
That was rude. The very rudest.
He laughed, still in shock. Yeah. The very rudest.
Daisy had to go.
He laughed again, this time scornfully. “But not today,” he murmured. She’d definitely outgunned him. He should have expected a rifle.
But there was no way anyone should have expected that woman to shoot like that. Every bullet went exactly where she’d wanted it to go.
She shot the gun out of my fucking hand.
Yes, she did. Now sit up straight and figure out what the fuck you’re going to do.
He sat up as straight as he could, considering he was leaning his head out the window to be able to see. There was cell signal here. Sooner or later a cop was going to respond, because Daisy and the Fed would have, of course, called for help by now.
There was no way any cop would miss his car now. Not with both windows shot out. Fucking Daisy Dawson. The first thing he needed to do was ditch this car and find another.
You should have gone home last night. You could have been on a cushy flight to New York City. But no. He’d just had to see what they were up to.
Almost there. He’d noted the Grass Lake rest area on the way in, but he hadn’t wanted to lose the Fed and Daisy. Now, it was his only hope of getting out of this clusterfuck a free man.
Slowing his car, he eased it to the other side of the road, hiding it behind a group of trees. If he was lucky, no one would see it until he’d procured another.
But his prints were all over it. And his blood.
Not a problem. Your prints aren’t on record with the police. But his DNA was. He was certain they’d scraped Daisy’s fingernails Thursday night. They have my skin. Neither fingerprints nor DNA would matter—unless he got caught. Then it would matter a lot.
The car needed to go, too. Shit. He didn’t have time for this.
Take the time, asshole. Or when you’re sitting in jail, you’ll wish you had.
Think. He had no gasoline in the trunk. No booze. Nothing that would burn.
Nothing but the gas in the tank itself. He had a lighter, but no matches. And dropping a match into the gas tank was insane anyway. He wanted to get away, not immolate himself.
I need a fuse. He did a quick mental inventory of everything he had in the car, which wasn’t much. Just the now-empty bottles of bleach and the laundry baskets . . . And the dryer sheets.
Retrieving the box of dryer sheets from the car, he spread a few on the floor of the trunk and lit them with the lighter. Then he stuffed all that were left into the gas tank and lit the tail he’d left hanging out.
He stood back for a moment, watching the fire eat at the sheets, then kicked himself back into gear. Move it, asshole. His left hand was still bleeding. It dripped down, spattering the snow. He quickly unwrapped his hand and rewrapped it with the scarf, pulling it tighter and hiding the bloodstains as best he could before kicking at the snow to cover the blood spatter. Then he found a good-sized rock and hefted it in his right hand. It would do. He hoped.
Crossing the highway, he made his way to the rest stop and waited in the shadows. There were only two cars there, a Honda four-door sedan and a Ford Mustang. Both were empty. It looked like the occupants of one of the cars were taking photos of Mt. Shasta. It was a very nice view. He hoped it kept them busy a little longer.