“Casey!” Dalton says.
My first thought is that Garcia has collapsed, and thank God we’re only a hundred feet from Rockton. Then there’s another crack, and I realize it’s not a branch.
Someone is shooting at us.
Dalton pulls me down just as I start to drop on my own. He looks over at Garcia, but I drag Dalton off the path, as I flash back to a week ago, Dalton trying to protect Brady, lucky to end up with only that bullet wound in his shoulder.
This time, I’m ready to haul Dalton into the undergrowth and hold him there if I have to. I don’t have to … because he looks at Garcia and sees the blood pumping from his chest and knows it is already too late.
THIRTEEN
I lift my head. Dalton goes to push it down, but I duck and peer out at the path. There’s a dark shape about fifteen feet away, in the bushes alongside the path. It’s too hidden by that bush for
me to see more than a shape.
“Cover me,” I whisper to Dalton.
“My arm—”
“—is fine for cover fire.”
I inch behind a tree and rise to a crouch. The dark shape has vanished, and I’m aiming my gun at the bush instead. I lean out.
A bullet whizzes past. I drop. Dalton fires. There’s a crash of undergrowth as the shooter takes off.
I lunge again, but the shooter fires, and I can’t see anything to fire back at. Dalton shoots twice in quick succession, but I know he’s also firing blind. Firing high, as his bullets thwack into trees, his shots intended only to make our assailant dive for cover. The shooter just keeps running, and with the thick growth here, I see only a dark blur dart between two massive evergreens, already fifty feet away.
I’m about to fire—a wide shot, still hoping to spook the shooter—but a shout from deep in the forest stops me. Running footfalls say someone else has heard the shots and is coming our way. I can’t risk firing off another round.
“Casey?” Dalton says.
He jogs up beside me.
“Take Garcia,” he says. “I’ll go after the shooter.”
I race back to Garcia. As I do, I shout, “Man down!” and “We need help!” I can already hear shouts and footfalls.
I drop beside Garcia. He’s been hit twice. Both to the back. The first shot is low and off to the side. The second is to the upper left of his chest, and even if it missed his heart …
I won’t think about that. He’s still breathing. That’s the main thing. Breathing and conscious, but in shock, his eyes wide, mouth working.
“We’ve got you,” I say. “We have two doctors in town. You’ll be fine.”
He will not be fine. I know that. But as long as he’s breathing, there’s a chance to find out who did this. To find out who the marshal came for.
God, I’m a cold bitch, aren’t I? A man is dying in my arms, and all I can think about is keeping him calm enough to find out who he came for. But that’s my job. Garcia is here for a fugitive, and the town knows that, and his target has lain in wait for us to return. Lain in wait to make sure Garcia fails in his mission.
My job is to make sure that person fails in his—or her—mission to dodge justice.
Right now, Garcia wouldn’t be able to answer my questions. He’s going into shock. I assess and field-treat Garcia’s wounds, mostly trying to stop the bleeding. By the time help arrives, Garcia is unconscious. April appears right behind the first group. That surprises me. I don’t know what I expected—that she’d hear shots and hide? That’s unfair, but honestly, it’s what most people do. It’s the sane thing to do.
April arrives and only needs a ten-second assessment to look up at me.
“We’re going to move him to the clinic,” I say.
Her brow furrows, and her voice takes on a tone I know well, the big sister to the younger one who, time and time again, proves she’s not quite as bright as one might hope.
“This man—” she begins.