Page 74 of Outlaw Ridge: Griff
Griff paused behind a thick cluster of hedges, scanning the back of the antique shop. There. A metal access ladder, bolted to the brick. It looked rusted but intact, probably used by maintenance crews. It would get him to the roof if he could climb it without drawing fire.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the front lot. Another shot rang out. Jesse, still doing his job, keeping the shooter’s attention.
That’s it. Keep him focused.
Griff adjusted his grip on his weapon and moved, slipping through the last patch of brush until he was flush with the base of the antique shop’s back wall. The air here was colder, still laced with the bite of smoke, but quieter.
He looked up at the ladder and started to climb. Moving fast but with each step feeling as if it took a lifetime or two. Then, the metal rung creaked beneath Griff’s boot as he reached the top of the ladder. He froze.
Too late.
The gunman, crouched near the front edge of the roof with the rifle braced against a vent pipe, pivoted sharply at the sound.
Griff fired twice.
The first bullet slammed into the man’s gut, spinning him halfway around. The second tore through his kneecap with a sickening crack. The gunman screamed and fired in return, the muzzle flash flaring like a mini explosion. Griff ducked hard, his shoulder slamming into the ladder, and he nearly lost his grip.
The shot punched through the bricks just above his head.
The fall wouldn’t kill him, but if the guy limped to the edge and got a clear shot, Griff wouldn’t get a second chance. He pressed himself flat to the ladder, heart hammering, listening for movement above.
Then—another shot. This one from below. Not aimed at the roof, but into the sky.
Jesse.
The shot drew the gunman’s attention. Griff heard the scuff of a foot dragging against the roof surface, a guttural moan of pain as the shooter tried to shift positions again.
Griff risked it.
He swung up and over the lip of the roof, raised his weapon, and took the shot. This time it went through the shooter’s hand. The rifle clattered to the rooftop as the man cried out and collapsed in a groaning heap.
Griff surged forward, kicked the weapon far from reach, and dropped into a low crouch beside him. The guy was late thirties, close-cropped beard, buzzed dark hair. Strain lined his face, twisted with pain.
“Who are you?” Griff demanded, gun trained on the man’s face.
The shooter’s mouth tightened, blood bubbling from his lips. “Judd… Connor.”
“Who hired you?” Griff snapped. “Where’s the kid?”
The man coughed, turned his head like he was going to spit blood. He stayed quiet.
Griff leaned in lower, his tone colder than steel. “You’re bleeding out. I could sit here and watch it happen. Let you die. For what? A paycheck? You really want to die for someone else’s secret?”
Judd’s eyes flickered. His lips parted in a hoarse whisper. “Storage room. Sewing shop… two blocks up.”
“Is he alive?”
A shaky nod.
Griff knelt beside the wounded gunman, ignoring the man’s groans as he tightened zip ties around his wrists and ankles. The guy wasn’t going anywhere—his knee was blown out, his gut was bleeding—but Griff secured him anyway. Then he grabbed the phone clipped to the man’s belt and shoved it in his pocket.
He stood, gave the man one last hard look, and headed for the ladder. By the time his boots hit the ground, he was already moving fast. He cut across the lot and reached Lily and Hallie behind cover.
“Shooter’s down,” he said, breathing hard. “Call in the fire team and EMTs. It’s clear.”
Hallie raised her radio to call it in. Jesse came through the station door, took one look at Hallie, and rushed to her side, kneeling down to check her bleeding shoulder as he relayed the all-clear to the EMTs and fire team.
Griff turned to Lily. “The shooter said Caleb is up the street at the sewing shop.”
