Page 76 of Dirty Love

In the distance, there’s a siren. Another. We don’t have much time.

An annoying prickle of concern scratches at me. Something is out of place and until I sort through my mental catalog of my surroundings, that heightened sense of impending doom won't settle down.

I don't want it to.

I trust that instinct more than anything else.

Something isn't right, but it doesn't matter.

If this goes sideways, it'll be after I get to Tabitha or die trying.

I’d walk into Hell to stand between her and Lucifer himself.

I see a flash of light a second before I hear the shot snap through the air and hit the wall a few feet from me. “Sniper!” I yell, sprinting ahead. Into Hell indeed.

“Seen,” Tag’s voice snaps in my ear, over our radios. “Southwest corner of the warehouse.”

No, that’s wrong. “Southeast,” I correct. “Flash was definitely from the front of the warehouse. Repeat. Southeast.”

“I have a visual on the southwest roof. Prone sniper.”

“Maybe there’s two of them.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. The door in front of me is locked, but the window’s glass. I turn my face away and slam my elbow though it, busting the shards as wide as I can so I can twist my hand and flip the lock. “Jason, you copy? The Feds need to know this is an active sniper situation. They’ll want to kill federal agents. This is a setup, and maybe not just for us.”

I’m in the building now, and there’s a staircase. I take the stairs two at a time. I’ve got Grant’s Glock, and I check the magazine. Maybe twenty rounds. Time to start counting bullets.

—thirty-six—

Wilson

One sniper might be directly above me, in the southwest corner. The flash of light I saw was at the other end of the roof, so they’ve got at least two corners covered. Maybe there are four of them, and they plan to try and hold the building by picking people off, but then why not have an entire militia of crazy psychos to keep me from getting in in the first place?

The stairwell rises up onto the roof, the doorway in a small jut-out in the sky. I turn the handle, then swing the door wide, inviting shots first before I roll out, covering the entire arc of visible space with my weapon as I pivot on my back.

No shots come, but directly in front of me, I see a body with a rifle—and I hear whimpering.

Dread slams into me.

“Hold your fire,” I hiss into the comms. “Hold your goddamn fire.”

“Report,” Jason says back, far too calm.

I can’t report. Not fucking yet. I spin around, checking out the far corner of the roof.

I see Spencer now, but he’s hunched down behind his rifle and the wind is quite loud up here. He may not have heard the door open, as it was facing away from him behind that jut-out. I grab it before it can swing shut, and silently put it back in place.

“Visual confirmation. Southeast corner, Spencer Rook with a sniper rifle. Southwest corner—” My voice cracks. “His hostage, bound and placed next to a rifle. He wants her shot dead. She may be injured.I need cover.”

“Ninety more seconds and you’ll have it, the Feds are moving into position.”

A minute and a half.

I tell myself to take the time to deal with my hands and elbow, all bleeding. To catch my breath and force myself into a place of calm discipline.

It doesn’t work. I spend every second until that megaphone crackles to life below freaking the fuck out about whether or not she’s injured already.

As soon as the FBI spokesman starts talking to Rook, I’m in motion, running lightly across the roof and sliding into place next to Tabitha. I work on the ropes first, untying the knots and rubbing circulation back into her hands.

She reaches for me, clinging to me even as she sobs quietly.

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