Page 81 of Tactical Lies

1:35 A.M.

Gunshots.

Connor could have sworn he’d just heard gunshots.

Over the roar of the storm, it was hard to be sure, but he thought that’s what he’d just heard.

Since he’d killed four of the men who had come there tonight with the intent of killing him and Becca, only two were left behind. They would be watching over Becca, possibly hurting her although he couldn’t allow himself to think too deeply about that right now.

The chances that Becca had gotten her hands on a weapon were slim to none.

That meant …

As much as he didn't want to admit it, it likely meant that Becca was the one who had just been shot.

Twice.

Because he would have bet his life on the fact that he’d heard two gunshots.

Two gunshots meant two wounds.

Two wounds that could have either ended Becca’s life or she was bleeding out from them right now.

He had to get to her.

Pushing himself harder, Connor ran full out through the storm. Several times he slipped, almost losing his balance. But he kept going. The need to get to Becca was too strong to be ignored. Nothing was going to get in his way. Nothing was going to stop him.

When he reached the bridge they’d played Poohsticks on just hours ago, Connor faltered for a moment. How had they gone from that perfect moment where they’d shared and taken another step to getting back what they’d had to this mess? To running through a raging storm, to fighting for their lives, to blood and death and pain?

Forcing himself to keep moving, Connor pushed harder, fought against the wind gusting against him, trying to push him backward, slow him down. The rain and the dark made it almost impossible to see more than a few yards ahead of him, but he didn't need to see. He knew where the cabin was, and he wasn't going to stop until he got there.

Finally, the cabin came into view.

Light still danced from the window so he knew that Becca and the other two men were inside.

Even though his heart urged him to keep running, to go bursting inside, to shoot anything that moved that wasn't Becca, Connor managed to cling to the last dregs of his self-control and slowed down.

Bursting in there could get Becca killed.

No way was he going to be responsible for her death.

If she was still alive.

Creeping up to the house, keeping to the shadows, approaching from the darker side of the house, Connor stopped when he reached the kitchen window.

There was no one in there.

The cabin stood empty.

Panic stole any remaining common sense he had left, and he bolted for the back door, flinging it open and stepping inside.

It looked pretty much the same as when he and Becca had gone up to bed before the storm rolled in and the generator went out. Except one of the chairs had been pulled away from the table and there were pieces of rope lying around it. Becca’s sweater lay discarded on the floor, and as he scanned the room, he noticed the body lying on the ground.

Even in the thin light of the flashlight, he could tell it was too big to be hers.

That might have given him some relief if Becca was anywhere within sight.

The front door stood open, and other than the body, it didn't seem like anyone else was inside. Still, he hurried over to the body, crouched beside it, and reached out to touch his fingertips to the man’s neck to confirm that he was indeed dead. He was. There was no pulse, and he could see that the man’s chest wasn't rising and falling so he wasn't breathing. He was still warm, but it had only been a few minutes since he’d heard the gunshots.

---