Page 72 of Canyon of Deceit
Gunfire whizzed past us. I peered around the car door. Two men approached, firing with each step. I aimed at the man nearest me and squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet into his chest. He jerked back and fell. Blood trickled down the front of a black T-shirt.
The other shooter kept coming and firing.
“I’m hit again,” the Ranger said.
The shooter fired, and I rushed to help Wes. Blood seeped from his side and chest. In the distance, the sound of sirens gave me a twinge of hope. A car squealed to a stop. Car doors slammed. Were they police? Rangers? Or backup to assist the men bent on killing us?
The shooter moved closer. I raised my gun to stop him. My magazine was empty. I grabbed Wes’s gun, but my senses screamed I’d run out of time.
Car doors slammed. The shooter spun away, giving me a moment to dive at his legs. I caught him off-balance, but he righted himself. Law enforcement would neutralize him, but that didn’t help the blood escaping the Ranger’s wounds.
Gunfire pierced the afternoon air.
The shooter startled and fell over me.
Footsteps tapped on the driveway, and I swung around to makesure another shooter didn’t have me in his sights. A Ranger pulled the first shooter off me. Blane’s driver.
“This man needs an ambulance. He’s been shot at least twice.”
The man bent to the injured Ranger and touched his neck for a pulse while calling 911. “Hang on. Help is on the way.” He shot me a glance. “He’s alive. Faint pulse.”
“What can I do?”
He added pressure to the gaping hole in the man’s side. “Pray.”
“On it.” I rolled away from them, sensing the man had more experience about ER care than I did. Had he taken Blane home? “Thank you for saving my life.”
“It wasn’t my shot.”
“Therese!”
A familiar voice warmed me to my bones. Making slow strides up the driveway was my hero. “Blane.”
FORTY-TWO
BLANE
I’d experienced two other times in my life when I sensed caring and compassion in the way a woman spoke my name, Wendy and my mother. It struck me that my maturity and newfound faith caused the lyrical sound from Therese to imply more—a hint of love and thankfulness. God had been in control of my firearm, not me. He’d saved her, not me.
Sobering and real.
Police officers and Rangers worked the crowd, some quickly managing the gathering people and others hurrying to our aid. Two ambulances entered the scene with paramedics racing up the driveway, gear in tow.
“Are you okay?” I said to Therese.
“Yes. Shaking a bit though. Blane, I shot and killed a man. I mean, he would have killed me, but I feel awful.”
“I understand. It never gets any easier.” I moved aside to let the paramedics give the wounded Ranger attention and to check on Therese. She assured them she wasn’t hurt and joined me.
Leaning against the Ranger’s bullet-ridden car, I gave her a slight smile. “God controlled that shot, not me.”
She took my hand. “We need the same control to save my driver. Shot three times. So much blood.”
“I’m sorry you’ve witnessed all this violence.”
“There’s a reason we’ve endured it, even if we never learn why.” She glanced at the street and stiffened. “Do those people think this is a show?”
“They’re curious. If the victims were friends or family, their reactions might be different.”
