He grabbed her gun from the backseat and handed it toher. She checked to make sure it was ready to fire and flicked offthe safety. “How many?”
“Three.”
Outmanned and likely outgunned. This wasn’t going toend well.
She found the button and rolled her window down,ready to point her gun out and take out whoever tried to come ather.
“Megan Perkins?” The voice that called out wasthickly accented in a way that made her skin crawl. She had nothingagainst Venezuelans, but the sound of a voice like that lived inher nightmares in a way she wasn’t ever going to escape.
What mattered was that it wasn’t the shooter from therestaurant. She wouldn’t have been able to handle someone shetrusted betraying her like that—keeping her from being able to getto her mom.
“Get out of the truck, Megan,” the voice called outagain. “Come with us.”
Her entire body chilled. She adjusted her grip on thegun. Tried to inject some life into her icy fingers.
“I can take the two on my side,” Adrian said. “Youtake the one on yours.”
Two? The second man would shoot him before he couldtake the guy out.
“No.” She reached for thehandle.
“Megan.” He tugged on her arm, the one holding thegun.
She wasn’t going to let him get hurt. “Stay here. I’mgoing, you get Zimmerman.” It made her want to vomit just to sayit, let alone the reality that she was going to actually do it.Don’t think about that. The alternative was worse.
Adrian would be hurt. Probably even killed.
He needed to live.
“Meg.”
She pushed the door open, then stuck her hand out sothey could see she held nothing in it. No threat. Don’t hurtAdrian. Fear blinded her. She couldn’t even pray, the feelingwas so all-consuming.
Adrian flung his own door open. Bang. Heducked against the onslaught of bullets from the gunmen. A splitsecond later, he opened fire in return.
Bullets shattered the backwindow. She pulled her hand back in and tried to twist around inspite of the pain. Use the frame as cover, fire off a few shots ofher own.
Time slowed in a way it always did when those momentsbetween breaths meant the difference between life and death. Everypump of her heartbeat felt twice as fast, and yet slower than shethought possible. A strange dichotomy she didn’t have time to mullover.
Not right now, at least.
Megan fired off two shots. The shooter on her sideducked behind a tree, then leaned out to squeeze his trigger. Heheld his gun one-handed. The front lifted as it discharged.
The driver’s door window cracked, a bullet hole inthe center. She ducked on reflex, eventhough it missed her by several inches.
If she died here, it was going to be allAdrian’s fault. She’d been about to savehis life—and the lives of many others. He’d forced this situation.And now it was going to get them both killed.
More shots rang out behind her. Adrian yelped. Megangritted her teeth, then called out, “You okay?”
She watched the tree. Waited.
Adrian didn’t reply.
Her shooter shifted a fraction, and she saw theopening she needed. Held her breath. Pushed aside the aches andpains she’d accumulated. Squeezed the trigger.
Her shot didn’t go high. Or wide.
The shooter dropped to the ground.
Megan got out and turned to see Adrian’s side. Oneversus one. He held his own. She ran to the shooter she’d hit andgrabbed his gun. But he wasn’t going to reach for it—he wasdead.
She laid the gun by the back tire and made her wayaround the SUV. Adrian had dropped one guy, who moaned and clutchedhis shoulder. The other one had his back to her, his gun aimed atAdrian.
When the injured gunman’s eyes met hers, she saw theflash of recognition. She shook her head. Not here to play, shedidn’t want him alerting his friend to her presence.
But apparently, he wasn’t that smart.
The guy opened his mouth to yell to his friend. Megandidn’t want to shoot him unless he posed a threat to her life, soshe stepped out from behind cover and said, “Put the gun down.”
Adrian lifted up, his own gun aimed at each of thetwo men in turn.
“I said, put it down.” She took measured steps as shespoke, falling back on all that FBI training ingrained in her. “Youdon’t wanna die. I don’t want him to die. So drop it on the ground,and put your hands up.” She’d circled all the way around the downedman and kicked his gun farther from his reach, even though he’dhave had to scoot to grab it.
Adrian said, “You heard the lady. Put it down.”
The standing shooter held his gun aimed at Adrian,and didn’t move. Or say anything. She could only see the back ofhim, her own aim between his shoulder blades. She could shoot him,but not before he got his shot off—and Adrian was dead.
She couldn’t see the intention in his eyes. Wouldn’tbe able to read the second when the situation changed, and he madehis decision.
They needed to call this in. Get Hank here withagents to take these guys and question them—find out whereEl Cuervo was.
She took another step around the guy, so she’d atleast be able to see Adrian’s—
The gunman swung his arm around and shot his friend,the downed man. Before the guy had even fallen back to the ground,Adrian opened fire on the shooter. He hit the guy in his leg.
He crumpled, crying out.
Adrian yelled, “Don’t!”
But his gun arm swung again. Adrian put anotherbullet in him. The shooter’s bullet cut a hole through Adrian’spant leg a second before he slumped back to the ground. Dead.
He cried out and hopped back a step, uttering acouple of PG-rated expressions that made her want to laugh.
“You okay?”
He brushed off his leg and straightened. “I likethese jeans.”
Megan said, “They look better now.” He needed alittle distressed fabric in his life. It gave him character insteadof him looking like a spit-polished G-Man. Which he was. But thatdidn’t mean he couldn’t branch out a little sometimes.
Adrian blew out a breath. “Are you okay?”
“Health-wise, yeah. But
