Page 2 of Triggered By Love
Pop. Pop. Pop.
“You got to get out of here.” The stranger wrapped her slender body with one arm while shooting at the same time.
“No, no, no!” She struggled and clawed at his face, hands, anything.
Bullets whizzed by her, but strangely she didn’t care. She turned her head, looking back through the red mist. Brando’s eyes were still open. He lay on his stomach with his arms spread out. He’d protected her, and she was soaked with his blood.
“No!” Avery’s wail was thin and forlorn. “No…”
“Get down.” The man shoved Avery through a doorway and fired off more shots. “Got him.”
He spoke into a headset mic and holstered his gun.
“You killed him.” Avery kicked him with the heel of her stiletto. “You killed my Brando. Who are you?”
“Officer Jason Burnett, NYPD.”
Chapter Two
One year later.
Avery Cockburn pushed her sweaty bangs from her eyes and aimed the pistol, holding it as steady as she could. She calmed her breath and depressed her trigger finger over and over, emptying the clip in rapid succession. Each shot jolted through her like the crack of a whip, and she fought to tamp down the fury surging through her veins.
The paper target hung silent, and the outline of the head and shoulders remained pristine—not even a nick on a corner or a bullet grazing the edge.
She slapped the pistol onto the counter and tore off her earplugs. Frustration stung her eyes, and she clenched and unclenched her useless fingers.
Pow. Pow. Pow.
Hurriedly plugging her ears, she shot a glare at the man next to her emptying out his clip. Slivers of paper exploded from his target.Pow. Pow. Pow.
Her ears rang from his shots, and she was about to complain when she noticed the grim eyes underneath the safety glasses.
Detective Jason Burnett.
What a way to ruin an already sucky day.
She couldn’t forget the aftermath of Brando’s shooting death. She’d lashed out at the arms holding her back, kicking and screaming with an agony that hollowed out her heart.
She’d landed a blow on the man’s square jaw and scratched his eyes—enough so she could have been arrested for assaulting a police officer.
For an insane minute, she believed he’d shot Brando. Instead, the official reports had him saving her life. She was the target, according to the police. Almost a year later and after countless interviews and investigation, they had no clue who was behind the hit. All they had was the dead gunman—a small-time gangster working on his first hit job with her name and the schedule of her runway walk in his pocket.
Avery’s upper lip curled at the detective and his gun. He was a good shot, but if he’d spent more time investigating and less time shooting, maybe he’d have a break in the case. Instead, he’d given up. Brando’s death was officially a cold case and deep-sixed into never-never land. The cops had more important investigations, or in this case, more important bullets to plug into paper targets.
Calmly, as if he was supremely aware of the daggers aimed his way, Detective Burnett pushed a button to retract his paper target.
Avery wasn’t going to give him the benefit of a fangirl gasp when she spotted a single hole shredding his target. He’d emptied his entire clip into the red heart outline on the man’s head and shoulders silhouette.
Despite the unpleasantness, she couldn’t help noting the detective’s lack of fashion sense. Oh, he was as rugged and as male as they came, but he was rough around the edges with a heavy Bronx accent. His build was firm and compact, not overtly bulging, but she’d felt the power and grace of his movements when he’d swept her away from danger. He’d been dressed in a sleek black suit, off duty, and attending her fashion show—probably on a date with one of the models. It was obvious someone else had dressed him that night.
Today, at the gun range, he wore plain black jeans over black boots and a cotton sweater with a political logo—one of those gun rights, God bless America, flag waving types. Brave, considering they were in the Flatiron district of New York City where the residents tended to run liberal. Then again, he was a cop and he was armed, and a good thing too. He’d shot back and nailed the hitman.
That was all well and good, but the detective was never going to nail her no matter how good of a shot he was. Avery took one more assessing glance, purely professional since he was a complete fashion faux pas, and began dressing him with her eyes. A clean shave would help for starters and some plucking to clean up his bushy eyebrows.
Dark-brown hair over whiskey-colored eyes, his jaw was always grizzly with a shadow, even early in the day. A strong Roman nose over smirky lips, the detective thought himself a wise guy, but Avery firmly shut down any hint of flirtation.
She was in mourning, and she’d always be in mourning.
