Page 33 of Lone Star Wanted
She hated it. Hated the whole setup. But she didn’t try to stop him. Instead, she popped her own door and slid out behind him.
They crept along the edge of the lot, moving between the rusted speaker poles and crumbling concrete. The screen loomed in front of them now—towering and ghost-white, pocked with weather stains and peeling paint. Weeds had grown up around the base, some nearly waist-high, and the metal supports groaned faintly in the wind.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t over. And Cassidy had the sinking feeling it was only going to get worse.
Still no sign of Becker.
Cassidy crouched low behind a partially toppled pole, Kincade beside her. Another shot rang out, striking the gravel just feet away, spraying dust and stone into the air.
She swore and ducked tighter against the pole. Kincade jerked his head, signaling her to move wide around the back corner of the screen. They ran for it, boots crunching and lungsburning, then ducked behind one of the screen’s thick vertical supports.
A flicker of movement caught her eye.
Jericho.
He appeared just to the right of what was left of the restrooms. He had spotted them, lifted a hand, and motioned sharply toward the tree line behind the screen.
Cassidy followed the line of his gesture.
There.
Nestled in the shadows between two mesquite trees was a figure, almost invisible at first. Dressed in full camo, crouched low, rifle braced in his arms. A black ski mask covered his face.
Her stomach dropped. That had to be the shooter.
Kincade saw him too. He raised two fingers to Jericho, then pointed to the right, indicating a flanking approach.
Cassidy’s grip tightened on her weapon.
They had a shooter. A rifle. And the upper hand was slipping. Fast.
Kincade leaned close, his voice barely a breath against her ear. “We try to take him alive. Could be our only shot at answers.”
Cassidy gave a tight nod. This guy, whoever the hell he was, had nearly taken their heads off. But dead men didn’t talk. And if he was working for someone, they needed a name. A motive. Something solid to put this nightmare into focus.
She crouched lower and began circling wide as Kincade shifted closer to the shooter’s flank. Jericho was doing the same from the opposite side, closing in slow and quiet.
Cassidy’s mind raced as her boots crunched through the dry brush. The shooter could be a hired gun, someone brought in to finish what the arson at the safehouse had failed to do. Or worse, he could be one of the suspects themselves, someone trying to tie up loose ends before Travis spoke out.
She didn’t see Vance pulling a trigger himself. He was too polished, too political, but power made people reckless. Desperate.
She kept moving, staying low.
Kincade was less than fifteen feet from the shooter now, eyes locked on the man’s back, muscles coiled. One good burst of speed and he could take him down.
Cassidy raised her weapon, ready to cover him.
Then, a gunshot tore through the air.
The masked man jerked violently, collapsing forward into the dirt. His rifle clattered to the ground beside him.
Cassidy spun toward the sound. Sheriff Becker stepped out from the trees, gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel.
Her stomach dropped.
“No,” Kincade muttered, standing slowly. “Damn it.”
That was it. He wasn’t getting back up. And with him, their chance at answers bled out into the dirt.
