Beaming, “You’re an angel,” she stepped into her baggy shorts and lifted them to her waist. “Thank you. I almost feel human again.”
He grabbed her hand and jabbed the Walther toward the door to the garage. “Stay close, so I know where you are, but be prepared to get off the line if bullets start flying.”
Recognizing the self-defense term, Faith saw herself moving laterally to get away from the line of attack. “Got it.”
After slipping into the garage and confirming it was empty, they moved to the entry point next to the wide overhead door.
Randall stuck out his head a sliver and surveyed the area and the path to the waiting Dodge Charger. “Looks clear. Let’s go.” He pulled on her hand and ran down the driveway, his head pivoting, his eyes alert to the slightest of movements.
They crossed the street, hopped a curb, and ran across an unfinished yard of dirt, sand, and stones. Twigs poked out of the ground in places.
Randall ran faster.
“Ow!” Faith let go of his hand.
He took two more strides, stopped, and whirled around. “What’s wrong?”
She hobbled the three paces separating the two of them and clutched his forearm for stability. “I,” lifting her right leg, “I stepped on something back there,” she laid her foot on her left knee.
Randall spied blood on her heel. “Arms up...I’ll carry you.” He hugged her waist.
“No.” She planted a hand on his sternum. “You have to be able to shoot.” She limped a short distance. “I’ll fight through it.” She picked up her pace. “Let’s keep moving.”
Randall only had to fast walk to keep up with her slow, uneven gait. He shot glances over both shoulders before pointing straight ahead. “The car’s just beyond the end of that tree line.”
She grunted and groaned with every other step.
“If anything happens,” he glanced behind him, “just—”
Gunshots rang out.
Dirt and debris flew into the air two feet away from Faith.
“Go! Run!” Randall spun around and moved away from her. “Don’t stop.” He let loose with a volley of shots. “I’ll keep them busy.”
Faith ran.
Spying a bulldozer, ten feet away on his three o’clock, he took a step toward the cover before stopping and remaining in the open, hopefully, making himself a more tempting target than the gimpy, fleeing woman.
Bullets flew by his head and struck the earth around him.
Returning fire, That’s it...stay on me, he zigzagged left and right, never standing in one spot for too long.
The Walther’s slide locked back.
Dancing back and forth, he thumbed the magazine release while reaching for a spare. Cranking his head around, seeing Faith at the end of the tree line, he rammed in the partial mag he had swapped out earlier, sent the slide forward, and made a bee line for the dozer.
Bullets followed him.
He looked toward his eight o’clock.
Faith was nowhere in sight.
He focused his attention on the gunman.
Behind the backhoe that Randall had hid behind earlier, Linebacker was using the bucket for cover while periodically coming up to fire his weapon and ducking down again.
Standing near the dozer’s blade, Randall eyed the side of the machine, noting certain points. He leaned out from the engine housing and fired three rounds.
230-grain jacketed projectiles pinged off steel.
Linebacker kept the bucket between him and the incoming fire.
His hands and feet finding the holds he had scoped out a moment ago, Randall scaled the dozer, stretched out onto the machine’s canopy, closed his left eye, and lined up his sights.
Two seconds later, Linebacker lifted his head just enough to see over the backhoe’s bucket.
From his position of advantage, Randall squeezed off one shot.
Linebacker’s head rocked backward before disappearing behind the construction equipment.
Randall leaped away from the bulldozer and ran. Casting backward glances, he inserted his last full magazine and stowed the partial while rounding the tree line.
Keeping her weight on the ball of her injured foot, Faith half hopped/half lumbered toward the Charger. She looked as if she were wearing one regular shoe and one high-heeled pump.
“Coming up on your six.”
Hearing the familiar voice, she slowed.
Barely breaking his stride, Randall stooped, swept her off her feet, and carried her the last fifty feet to the Dodge before setting her down and opening the passenger door.
“I got it from here. Get this thing running.” Using the car’s roof and doorframe for support, she bounced twice on her good foot, pivoted right, and fell back into her seat.
He joined her a second later, both slamming their doors at the same time. Depositing his Walther into the center console, he started the engine, jerked on the gearshift, and stomped on the gas pedal.
The Charger lunged backward ten yards.
The driver whipped the steering wheel to the right.
Its rear end lurching in the same direction, the vehicle jumped a curb, its tires sinking into soft sand.
Randall worked the transmission, jammed his right foot to the floor, and whirled the wheel back to the left.
Tires spinning and throwing sand, its rear end fishtailing right, the muscle car jerked left and sped away.
Exhaling a big breath, Randall adjusted his position in the seat, pressed his back to the upright, and glanced at his mirrors. “I think we made it.” He faced his passenger. “How are you doing over there?”
She laid her tender foot on her left knee and inspected the bloody wound. “Since you just plucked me from a bad, bad situation, you’ll hear no complaints from me.”
“So no bullets found their way into you?”
“Nope. Only,” she touched her heel and made a face, “whatever’s in here.” She faced him. “You think we could stop by a hospital?”
“Your wish is my—” catching sight of the rear-view mirror, he scowled at the reflection of a six-wheel GMC 3500 pickup truck barreling down on them, the behemoth’s extra tires visible under protruding quarter panels. “I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait.”
Pivoting in her seat, Faith gawked at the
