“Where the fuck are they?” Matt growled at Hawthorn, referring to the uniformed officers they needed to secure the back alley, to make sure they didn’t get caught in the crossfire.
“Show me your fucking hands!” A slap, then a cry from Eve, cut off as the audio went dead again.
Fuck this. Matt twisted, trying to shake off Hawthorn’s grip on his flak vest.
“Are you in position?” Hawthorn snapped into the radio.
The excited voice of the young uniformed officer came over the radio in a high-pitched whisper. “We’re by the side door at the back of the building. It’s clear!”
“Where’s your goddamn phone? That fucking thing you’ve always got with you! Where—do you have it?” The sound of scuffling, cries of pain from Pastor Webber and screams of sheer terror from Eve, then, “You stupid fucking cunt!” rang cold and bitter into Matt’s ear as clear as if Murphy stood right next to him. A single gunshot rang out as Hawthorn shouted into the radio.
“Go!”
*
Sprawled on her back in the dirt, Eve saw a red mist balloon around Travis as he jerked a hundred and eighty degrees in place, then dropped to the floor. Then Matt and Hawthorn sprinted from around the Escalade’s front end, shouting “Down! Down on the floor! Now! Get down!” at what must have been the top of their lungs but sounded like it was coming from across a crowded, noisy club. The back door flew open and two police officers swarmed down the stairs to the loading dock, onto the open floor, adding their voices to the increasingly distant cacophony.
She crawled to her father’s side and rolled him onto his back. He was paper white, eyes closed, mouth lax. “Dad?” she asked, but the question transformed into a scream of pain as she was hauled to her feet by a fist in her hair. She twisted her ankle trying to get her footing in the heels.
“Looking for this?” he snarled, spinning her in a stumbling circle to face Matt and Hawthorn. He shook her by her hair like a dog shook a toy, sending pain spearing through her cheek and behind her eye before he pulled her tight against his body. “Back the fuck up.”
“Let her go,” Matt said, steely command in his voice.
“Fuck you,” Lyle spat.
Matt and Hawthorn were slowly separating, flanking Lyle, giving him two targets, dividing his attention. He stepped back and jammed steel into her throat. Eve fought back a cry as her teeth clunked together and thick, hot waves of pain burst through her injured cheek.
“Let her go. Drop your weapon. Get down on the ground.” This from Hawthorn, to her right. On her left Matt had gone silent, his face eerily calm.
Lyle jerked her around to face Matt. “Was she good? So smooth and pretty. A nice little bonus after a long day’s work?”
A professional career in bars taught Eve the basics of getting out of a man’s grip. She rammed her elbow into his gut and stomped on his instep with all the power she could put into the four-inch spike heel. It was amateurish but efficient; he yelped and released her hair, inadvertently sweeping her feet out from under her as he doubled over and lifted his injured foot. Eve thudded down hard on her bottom and hands, but she was free.
“Down! Get down!”
Male voices shouted, but not Matt’s. Eve looked at him, but he was focused on Lyle, silent and deadly, gaze and aim never faltering. Eve scuttled away as Lyle swung around and pointed the gun at her, the face she knew completely disfigured by a twisted snarl. She kept moving but the gun tracked her as she scrambled backward, up against her father’s body.
Then, as his finger tightened around the trigger, a sound ricocheted around the vast warehouse. The back of Lyle’s head disappeared in a spray of brain, scalp, blood, and bone. He slumped to the ground in front of her.
A scream formed in her lungs, clawing at her throat, but emerged as the strangled whimper of a nightmare. Matt darted forward, his weapon trained on Lyle, while he kicked Lyle’s gun to the corner of the warehouse. Then he dropped to his knees by Eve and holstered his weapon.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Matt. Oh my God.”
“Shhhh,” he said. “It’s okay.” He was turning her father over as he said it, his fingers feeling for his pulse. “We need an ambulance!” he shouted.
“They’re en route,” Sorenson said. She knelt over Travis, fingers to his throat, holding his jacket over the bullet wound in his shoulder. Officer McCormick was directing the uniforms to kick open every door in the warehouse, searching for anyone hiding from the police.
“Dad.” Her father’s eyes were closed, his skin clammy and paste white against the dirty floor. Eve gripped his hand in both of hers and gave it a little shake. “Dad, it’s over. Matt’s here, with other police officers. You’re safe. Just hold on a little longer.”