Page 35 of Mountain Defender

“Rory!” I launch myself towards her, praying my leg holds well enough.

Praying my weakness doesn’t end up getting her killed.

Though I hate the possibility of hurting her, I don’t have a choice. I fling myself over Rory’s body, taking her down hard to the ground.

Another bullet wings past us, close enough to feel the burn of it against my sleeve.

As we crash to the unforgiving concrete path, I try to cushion the blow, wrapping my arms protectively around her.

Despite my best efforts, Rory lets out a pained cry.

Guilt tears at me; more bleeding wounds stemming from my own failure.

“Stay down,” I tell her unnecessarily. Pinned underneath me like she is, I don’t think Rory could get up if she wanted.

In a trembling whisper, Rory asks, “What do we do?”

If it were just me, I’d grab the gun I have holstered under my shirt and I’d go on the hunt.

But it’s not just me. And my priority is getting Rory inside. Safe.

“I’m going to carry you inside. Just let me do it. Okay?”

There’s a tiny pause. I know Rory hates my idea. She doesn’t want me putting myself in danger for her.

But a beat later, she nods against my chest. “Okay.”

Decision made, I give myself just one moment to prepare.

Flat on the ground as we are, we’re more challenging targets. As soon as I get up, we’re exposed. But I can’t just lie here, waiting for this gunman to approach us.

So I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly.

I clear all the extraneous thoughts from my mind, focusing on one thing. Getting Rory to the house unharmed.

Then I move.

Turning so my back is facing the woods—likely where the gunman is hiding—I scoop up Rory and hold her koala-style, with her pressed flush against my chest. She understands immediately, wrapping her legs around my waist. She tucks her head under my chin, her breath coming in quick, uneven bursts.

My muscles tense, anticipating the flare of pain from another bullet.

Then I run.

Ignoring the pain in my leg, I push myself harder than I even thought possible.

Not just running, sprinting.

The kitchen door is a beacon calling to me.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

With every step, another silent prayer.

Please. Don’t let me fail her. Not again.

At the base of the stairs, my gut screams at me again.

Go!

---