He was shooting at them.
“Get down!” Weston flung himself at Avery, wrapping his arms protectively around her. They tumbled to the ground as more gunshots followed.
Avery cried out.
Six
Weston’s heart rate skyrocketed. Had Avery been hit? Another gunshot hit the tree next to them. He rolled, taking Avery with him, seeking shelter behind a large oak. A rock jabbed into Weston’s ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath but ignored the pain, twisting his body to cover Avery’s. One hand cradled her head; the other held her secure against his chest. Two more thumps followed.
Please, Lord, guide me. Help me keep Avery safe.
“Have you been shot?” Weston whispered in her ear. Warmth trickled over the hand buried in Avery’s silky hair, fueling his worry. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine. Scraped my head on a sharp stick. You hit?”
“No, he missed.”
She pushed against his chest, turning her head in the direction the shots had come from. Weston belatedly realized his mistake. Avery wasn’t a civilian. She was law enforcement and his equal. His instincts to protect her had overrode everything.
Weston eased away from her, pulling his weapon. He purposefully slowed his breathing to counteract the dose of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Beside him, Avery was doing the same. Her gun was in her hand and she scanned the surrounding woods.
“What’s he doing?” she whispered.
“Calculating.”
Either the shooter would stalk closer with the intention of killing them or he would flee. The weight of that pressing decision stretched out. One breath. Two. Weston strained to listen for any sounds beyond the steady patter of the rain. He’d lost his hat somewhere in the attempt to save Avery from the shooter. Water dripped from his damp hair into his face.
The snap of a branch cut through the night. It was followed by footsteps moving away from them. Weston raised up and glanced around the tree. The shooter was nothing more than a dark, moving shadow. He was heading for the street.
Weston bolted after him, knowing Avery would follow. Branches tore at his clothes and his boots slid on the damp pine needles. His heart thudded against his rib cage. Lightning flashed again followed by a roaring boom of thunder.
He drew up short. Where was the shooter?
Avery bumped into the back of him. Weston caught her arm just in time to keep her from falling. The sky opened up and the rain beat down on them. It flattened Weston’s hair to his head and soaked his clothes. He swung his gaze from one end of the woods to the other, searching for the shooter.
The roar of an engine came from the street. Weston raced toward it. He burst out of the tree line in time to see a taillight fading into the distance. A motorcycle. The streetlights were bright enough he could make out a person on it, but not the license plate.
“Look.” Avery pointed to the ground. A muddy tire track came from the trees and coursed along the grass divider to the street. “The shooter parked his motorcycle in the woods. This doesn’t make sense. The thefts on campus have been problematic, but there’s never been any indication the perpetrator was violent. At least, not until tonight.”
Weston glanced down the street. Avery’s vehicle, along with his, were several yards away. A sinking feeling settled in his chest. “Is this the route you normally take home from your grandmother’s house?”
She sucked in a breath. Avery’s mouth tightened and she nodded slowly. “It is.”
Weston didn’t have to say what he was thinking out loud. She already knew. It was written in the curve of her shoulders and the way her jaw tightened.
The shooter might not be connected to the thefts on campus. It could’ve been the killer, lying in wait.
For Avery.
An hour after the attack, the thunderstorm let up enough to collect forensic evidence from the shooting. Avery bent down to assess the water-logged tire track left in the grass. There was no way they would be able to pull a tire tread from it, and any footprints were also gone. That left them with only the bullets. Not much to go on.
She rubbed her forehead. The gash hidden in her hair had stopped bleeding, but it’d left her with a mean headache. She was in desperate need of a hot shower, dry clothes, and painkillers. Two out of the three were impossible, but she had some ibuprofen in her car.
Half a dozen law enforcement vehicles crowded the street. The thunderstorm had kept curious neighbors at bay for a while, but once the rain stopped, they crowded around the crime scene tape. Several reporters had also arrived. Avery needed to make a statement for the cameras, but she had to make sure there wasn’t blood in her hair first.
Was the shooter from tonight also the killer? A part of her wanted them to be the same person. The alternative was so much worse. If the killer and the shooter weren’t the same person, then there were two madmen running around on campus.
Yet questions plagued her. Why would the killer leave a note on the victim if he only intended to shoot Avery as she drove home from Nana’s? And how could he be certain she would take that route?
Lord, help me find the answers I need to keep people safe. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.
Avery popped open the trunk of her vehicle. The red first aid kit beckoned. She rummaged around inside and located the bottle of painkillers, then dry swallowed two.
“You might try an ice pack as well,” Weston said, coming around a patrol car.
He’d put a light jacket on, but his pants and boots were stained with mud. Avery’s gaze locked on the scrape marring Weston’s cheekbone. Her gut clenched. They’d recovered five bullets in the woods. One—the first shot fired—had missed Weston by a hair. He’d nearly been killed tonight.
Don’t think about it.
“Ummm, I don’t have time for an ice
