Chapter Four
A cascade of hot water streamed over his head as Santos braced his hands against the molded plastic shower wall. He wished he could wash away thoughts of Rose as easily as he could the bar’s smoky fumes.
The simple touch they’d shared in her kitchen had inflamed every nerve ending in his body. He’d wanted to draw her closer and do so much more than circle her wrist with his fingers. He’d wanted to push her hair aside and drop kisses up and down her neck. He’d wanted to touch all the secret places that he knew excited her. He’d wanted to make love to her then wake up in bed beside her and start all over again.
He couldn’t help but wonder if Rose ever thought about their lovemaking as he did. They’d had the kind of sex life all the guys he knew talked about but didn’t really experience. But their true relationship had gone far beyond the bedroom. She’d been the better half of him, and he hadn’t even realized that until they’d split up. He wasn’t sure what pained him more—the memories of their breakup or seeing her now and knowing he couldn’t have her.
The scanner on his bedside table squawked to life, and he twisted off the shower faucet.
“Officer needs assistance. Crown Circle and County Road 24. Repeat. Officer needs assistance—”
This didn’t sound good.
“Shots fired,” the radio reported. “Repeat, shots fired. Unit One. Unit One.”
Rose only had two deputies. She was Unit One.
He jumped out of the shower, his shoulder bouncing off the mildewed tile, his heart in his throat. Barreling into the bedroom, he raced to the scanner and rotated the volume with soapy fingers, grabbing his clothes with the other hand. The rest of the broadcast became a jumble of information, an address repeated, a cross street mentioned.
Dripping wet, he threw on his jeans, grabbed a shirt, and strapped on his gun, running for the front door. The second he stepped outside and his feet hit the porch, he realized he didn’t have on his boots. He turned and snagged them from their spot just inside the door before sprinting for his cycle.
He had the Harley rolling while he was still pulling on one boot.
But he had to slam on the brakes just as he reached the entrance to the highway.
A black dualie swooped by, racing down the interstate in front of Santos as if the devil himself was driving. He caught the blurred face of King Landry through the windshield of the F450. The taillights of the huge truck quickly turned into pinpricks then disappeared into the darkness.
The Harley screamed as he pushed the engine for all it was worth. He caught up with the truck a minute later.
…
She couldn’t just wait there and get herself shot.
Rose gripped her pistol tighter and burrowed deeper in the ditch. When she felt she could look and still keep her head, she squirmed sideways and stared into the direction from where the last shot had been fired. Nothing happened. But she couldn’t see anything, either. Maybe the shooter couldn’t see her.
Unless he had night vision. Or was crouched on one of the roofs. Or was using a sniper rifle from one of the rocky ledges jutting out behind the rise.
Besides being on the track team, she had been a member of the rifle squad in high school. She didn’t have the range she needed with the peashooter in her hand, but if she found a good spot that didn’t put anyone in danger, she was willing to give it a try. She glanced once more at the water tank behind her. This time she saw the ladder she’d missed before. The tank couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet tall, twenty at the most. Distract him enough and draw his fire in a different direction, and she could double back and climb to the top. A narrow railing ran the circumference. It might be her best chance.
Her fingers found a brick someone had thrown into the ditch, and she hoisted it above her head. Tossing it against her cruiser, she sprang to her feet and ran.
Coming here tonight, Rose hadn’t expected a trap.
Naïve, she thought, sprinting toward the stairs of the water tower. Naïve and stupid. How could she have been so careless? Especially after the kid in the parking lot the other night.
She hit the first rung at top speed and reached out for the railing, wrenching her shoulder as she swung herself up and bolted for the top as quietly as she could. The stairs gave way to the catwalk that circled the tower, and she dropped to her knees, following the metal landing to the opposite side.
The fusillade hit the tank just above her head. Throwing herself to the open gridwork under her knees, she cursed as the bullets blasted a line straighter than her Aunt Lavina could quilt. A second shooter was hiding on the other side, and this one had a rifle. They were doubling up on her from two different directions. She scrambled back the way she’d come, shocked that neither had hit her, more shocked that the tank had held. A dark form darted around the nearest trailer, hugging the thin siding. She lifted her gun then lowered it once more. The shot was too dangerous to take.
The men who had her trapped weren’t as concerned for the residents of the park. They began to shoot in unison, tattooing a line of holes on both sides of where she crouched. Ducking her head to lower her profile, she tried to decide her next move, then shock washed over her, confusion following. The rain of bullets continued to fall around her, but none of them hit her.
They weren’t trying to kill her.
So what in the hell were they trying to do?
She didn’t have time to answer the question. A moment later, the tank gave way and the rusty railing collapsed. She clung to the metal as long as she could, then a rush of cold water drove her hands away. She tumbled over the railing and fell. Twelve feet. Straight down.