“They were locked?”
“They were.” Knowing today was likely his last opportunity, he’d come prepared. He’d been halfway through picking the lock when the door at the end of the hall opened.
“And that’s when Spike came up?”
“Yep.” He’d straightened and slipped the pick and tension wrench into his jacket pocket just as Spike had stepped through the doorway. “He wasn’t happy to see me hanging around.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I was headed to manufacturing to say bye to Donald, one of the guys who finishes the figurines.” Good thing he paid attention to name tags.
“Did he believe you?”
“I don’t think so.” In fact, he knew so. Spike’s gaze had dipped several times to Shane’s hands still hidden in his pockets, then settled on his face, dark, cold and lethal. Then he’d made his threat—You and your little girlfriend are gonna learn to quit being so nosy. Something told him Spike would enjoy teaching that lesson. As long as it didn’t put Jess in danger, Spike could bring it on. Angry, defensive criminals tended to make stupid mistakes.
“At least your week at Driggers wasn’t a lost cause. We’ve made the connection between Spike and the guy who kidnapped Autumn.”
And he’d learned his way around. From the factory to shipping and receiving to the offices, he knew the layout of the place, something that could come in handy. He was no longer a Driggers employee. But he could probably learn a lot late at night, while the handful of workers on site were occupied with their “special projects.” Sometime this weekend, in the wee hours of the morning after Jess was fast asleep, he would test that theory.
“Maybe the FBI can locate him. I know it would make Autumn feel better. You’ve got someone working on that?”
“I do. I’m sure Nick Lombardi’s name is being run through the system as we speak.” He looked down at her in the soft glow of a street lamp. Night had completely fallen, and the full moon hung low in a star-filled sky. It was a beautiful evening, peaceful, clear and a comfortable seventy degrees. Perfect for a romantic walk.
Except someone wanted Jess dead. At least gone from Harmony Grove. And that same someone likely wasn’t too fond of him, either. He cast an uneasy glance around. A light flashed in the distance, a single dot of red.
Like a laser sight on a rifle or pistol.
Panic ripped through him. In one frantic motion, he grabbed Jess and dove into the hedge along the sidewalk. The simultaneous psssh sent a blade of cold terror slicing through him. A second later, he landed on the ground with a thud, Jess’s scream echoing in his ears.
She rolled away from him, clutching her shoulder, eyes wide and fear-filled. Denial rushed through his mind. No, not again. It can’t be happening again.
“Jess, what is it? Did I hurt you?” Dear God, please let that be all.
She stared at him, then slowly lowered her hand from her shoulder. A dark stain marked her white sweater, its jagged edge ever expanding.
No, no, no. He shook his head, trying to hold the memories at bay, but they surged forward anyway. Blood roared through his ears, then drained, leaving behind a hollow ring. He scooped her up and sat back on his heels, holding her against him, eyes squeezed shut against the images playing across his imagination.
She’d been hit. A bullet meant for him. Sweet, gentle Angie. She was innocent. He was the one they were after, the cop who wouldn’t give up until justice had been achieved, the adversary who had finally won. It should be him lying there, sprawled in the parking lot, face contorted in pain. Instead, he was the one holding her, hand pressed to her chest as her life’s blood ebbed through his fingers.
God, no, please don’t take her from me.
A moan slid up his throat, ending in muttered words of anguish that made little sense.
“Shane…Shane.”
The smooth, low voice cut through his torment, an anchor to the present.
“Shane, I’m all right.”
He opened his eyes and drew in a jagged breath. He was in Harmony Grove, kneeling in the grass holding Jess. And she was all right. Relief flooded him, wave after wave, washing away the tension that contracted his muscles and soothing his wild thoughts. His mouth sought hers and he kissed her, hard and deep. She responded beneath him, willing, eager, sharing of herself while drinking in all he had to give.
Then reality intruded like a bolt of lightning. What am I doing?
He loosened his grip and eased her back onto the grass. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m not…” He snapped his mouth shut and tried to gather his thoughts. “I’m not myself.”
“I’m all right. It’s just a flesh wound.” She didn’t reference the kiss, which was a good thing. Talking about it would have made it worse. Wincing, she struggled to a seated position, then again pressed a palm to her shoulder. “We’d better get out of here before they take another shot.”
“Of course.” He sucked in a fortifying breath, trying to get a grip. What was he thinking, kissing her like that? Where was his head right from the start? All the training. All his years of experience. Some cop he was. A woman under his protection got shot, and he lost it.
“We’ve got to get you away from here and to a hospital.” He pulled out his phone and dialed 911. He wouldn’t try to move her. The shooter had probably taken off immediately on firing the shot. If he had really wanted to kill one of them, he would have fired again. But just in case, his own weapon was in a holster under his jacket.
