SQUEAL OF tires and the crunch of ripping metal broke through the whisper of snow falling outside the rental house, rousing John from a light doze.
His nerves rattling, he froze for a moment, his pulse hammering inside his head as he listened for a repeat of the noise.
Had he dreamed it? His house was close to Route 7, the busiest highway in Cold Creek, though so far, he hadn’t seen all that much traffic on the road, certainly nothing like the busy street in front of his apartment building back in Abingdon, Virginia.
Still, it was snowing outside, and cars and snow didn’t mix that well, especially in an area where there wasn’t a lot of snow over the course of an average winter. Maybe he’d heard a car’s tires squealing outside and in his half-dream state, imagined the rest?
His shoulder ached as he donned hiking boots and shrugged on his heavy jacket, but he ignored the pain. Pain was good. It was a reminder he’d taken three bullets and lived to tell about it.
He headed out to the porch and peered into the fog of falling snow. About fifty yards down the road, a flash of color caught his eye. Strobing color, like the light bar on the top of a police vehicle.
Except the light wasn’t coming from the road. It was coming from several yards off the highway.
Patting the back pocket of his jeans to make sure he still had his phone, he left the porch and headed into the snow shower, keeping his eye on the flashing light. Within a few yards, he could see the light was coming from the light bar on the roof of a Barstow County Sheriff’s Department cruiser lying on its side in a patch of scrub grass. The roof was damaged, the front windshield shattered, but the light bar continued to flash.
As he neared the cruiser, movement on the highway caught his attention. A dark-colored sedan crept along the shoulder, as if rubbernecking the accident.
John waved at the slowly passing vehicle. “I need help here!”
The sedan kept going until it disappeared into the fog of snow.
Grimacing, John headed for the cruiser. A loud creak sent John backpedaling quickly. The cruiser started to shift positions until it landed on all four wheels. Two wheels were flat, John saw, and there was significant damage to the chassis. Clearly a rollover.
Once the cruiser settled, he hurried to the driver’s door and looked through the open window. The first thing he noticed was blood on the steering wheel. Then hair the color of Georgia clay.
Damn it. Could it be the deputy from the hardware store?
“Deputy Duncan?”
She didn’t answer. Looking closer, he realized the window wasn’t actually open. Instead, the crash had wiped out the window, showering pebbled bits of glass all over the floorboard, the seats and the injured deputy.
It was definitely Miranda Duncan, though half of her face was obscured by a sticky sheen of blood that seemed to be coming from the vicinity of her hairline. Gusts of wind carried snow flurries into the cruiser’s cab to settle on the deputy’s bloody face and melt into the crimson flow.
John tried the door. It resisted his attempt to open it, so he let it go and leaned into the cruiser through the window. Swallowing a lump of dread, he touched his fingers to her throat, feeling for a pulse. It was there, fast but even. He started to draw back his hand, reaching for his phone.
With shocking speed, Miranda’s left hand whipped up and clamped around his wrist, while her right hand snapped up, wrapped around a Smith & Wesson M&P 40, the barrel pointed between his eyes.
“Don’t move an inch,” she growled.
As John sucked in a deep breath, he heard the crack of gunfire. His pulse misfired, and he grabbed the side of the window frame, pebbled glass crunching against his palm.
“Get down!” Miranda shouted as a second shot thumped against the cruiser’s back door.
John Blake disappeared suddenly, leaving Miranda with an unobstructed view out the cruiser window. But she could still see nothing but falling snow—the storm had reached white-out proportions.
Pain throbbed in her head as she squinted in hopes of seeing her hidden assailant, but she couldn’t even see the road now. She could hear an engine, however, growling somewhere out there in the white void.
Behind her, the car door opened, and she swung around to find John Blake gazing back at her, his expression urgent. “You’re a sitting duck,” he warned, stretching his hand toward her.
Gunfire rang outside, the bullet hitting the front panel of the cruiser with a loud thwack, ending her brief hesitation. She unlatched her seat belt and scrambled toward John, taking his outstretched hand.
He pulled her out of the cruiser and pushed her gently toward the front wheel, giving her an extra layer of protection against the shooter. The movement made her feel light-headed and nauseated, and she ended up on her backside, leaning her back against the wheel as she sucked in deep draughts of icy air.
“I can try returning fire,” John suggested. “I’ll need your weapon—”
“Wait,” she said, forcing herself to focus. Was it her imagination or was the sound of the car motor moving away?
“I think whoever’s out there is leaving.” John had edged closer, near enough that she could feel the heat of his body blocking the icy wind. She leaned toward him, unable to stop herself.
“I think you’re right.” Her chattering teeth made it difficult to speak. “I called for backup but I think the radio got smashed in the wreck.”
“You could be hurt worse than you think,” he warned, crouching until his gaze leveled with hers. Up close, his hazel eyes were soft with concern.
“I d-don’t think I have any broken limbs,” she stuttered. “B-but I’m freezing.”
“My house is about forty yards in that direction.” He nodded toward his right. “Want to chance a run for it?”
She nodded, realizing she was too warmly dressed to be as cold as she felt, which meant she was probably going into some level of shock. She needed to get warm and dry. “Let’s do it.”
He stood first. Trying to draw fire, she realized, so they’d know if the shooter was still out there. She grabbed his hand, trying to draw him back down behind the cruiser, but he shook his head. “I think the shooter’s gone.”
He pulled her up, wrapping one arm around her waist to help her wobbling legs hold her upright.
She drew deep on her inner resources. Forty yards. She could run forty yards on a sprained ankle if she had to, and as far as she could tell, her only injury was the pain in her head. “Let’s do it.”
The first few steps felt as if she was running through mud, but with John’s help, she picked up speed and strength. By the time the small farmhouse loomed up out of the white fog of snow, she was feeling steadier.
John half dragged her up to the porch and inside the door. Instantly, blessed heat washed over her, and she felt her
