Going limp, she sagged against him, which allowed her to rest, since he was forced to bear most of her weight.
“Walk, damn it.” When he let go of her hair to grab her by the arm, she whirled and kneed him in the groin. The gun went off, probably by reflex, but she wasn’t hit.
Groaning, he stumbled, trying to recover, which gave her just enough time to slip out of his grasp.
She wanted to run for the office. She’d spoken to the manager fifteen minutes earlier and knew he lived on the premises. But if the sound of that gunshot hadn’t brought him out, he wasn’t capable of helping.
There’s no one to hear you. Did that mean there was no one alive?
Just in case, she ran for the barn instead, where she felt she might have the space, darkness and freedom to evade capture.
On her way, she pressed the speed-dial button on her phone for Sheriff Cooper. If he responded quickly enough, she might survive….
Rod had been hit in the thigh, which hurt like hell, but he doubted it was a serious injury. Thanks to the solid wood door, the other two bullets hadn’t even penetrated the wood. Ignoring the pain, he continued to hold the panel closed. And when whoever had just shot him tried to open it again, he provided enough resistance to tempt his attacker to pull harder—then let go.
The sudden release knocked his opponent into the opposite wall. Knowing he’d achieved one goal, he threw his gun aside. He couldn’t shoot blind because he couldn’t risk missing. Standing back long enough to fire could enable whoever it was to escape, and there was no way in hell Rod would take that chance. This was going to end here.
Launching himself in the intruder’s direction, he flung his arms wide, hoping to catch the guy regardless of whether he ran right or left. He managed to grab hold of the man’s shirt and drag him to the floor. His injured leg screamed at the jolt when he went down, but he had enough adrenaline flowing through him to keep fighting.
The shooter fired his gun again, but it wasn’t pointed at Rod. Rod had grasped the man’s wrist and pushed the muzzle up and away from both of them so the bullet went into a wall. A second later, he wrenched the gun away completely. Then he used his forearm to choke his attacker while putting the gun to his head.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
As soon as the barrel touched his temple, the man stopped squirming.
“I can shoot you and then turn on the light, if you prefer,” Rod said when he didn’t answer. “It’s your choice.”
“I… You… I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he rasped.
“What kind of misunderstanding?”
“I’m James Simpson. I’m a—a neighbor of Charlie’s…supposed to be taking care of the place. I thought you were a burglar…or—or the UDA killer, for God’s sake. Everyone’s been so…nervous…so afraid of what might happen next. I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt. I guess…I thought I’d be able to put a stop to it.”
“Nice try,” he said.
“It’s true!”
“So why have you been driving Charlie’s truck?”
“He said I could. He lets me use it whenever I want.”
Keeping the gun to his head, Rod yanked him to his feet. But then he had to catch his breath and cope with the pain radiating from the bullet in his leg.
For a moment, he couldn’t seem to find his equilibrium. He swayed as if he might pass out but, gritting his teeth, he steadied himself before inching down the hall, where he finally encountered a light switch. Using his elbow to turn on the light, he released James and stepped back. The threat of death by bullet would subdue him now that Rod could see well enough to hit his target.
James’s night-vision goggles lay on the floor. He no longer needed them, anyway. His gaze went from the muzzle of the gun Rod held, which was trained on him, to Rod’s pant leg. “You—you’d better get some help for that injury. I’m really sorry, man. I didn’t mean to shoot you. I swear I thought you were the UDA killer. God, I’m so sorry. Let me call someone, okay?” He lifted his hands. “I’m not trying to spook you. I just want to call an ambulance.”
Blood soaked Rod’s jeans, making them heavy and uncomfortable. He needed medical attention, all right. But in case the lab couldn’t cull any DNA from that cigarette butt he’d picked up at the Sanchez murder scene, or that butt hadn’t actually belonged to the killer, he first needed James to reveal whether or not he was the man they’d been hoping to find. If he was, there’d never be a better chance to get answers. The way he’d been sneaking around, using Charlie’s truck, certainly implied that he was guilty. Even if he denied it later, Rod would know how to focus the investigation. The Simpsons had plenty of their own vehicles. James didn’t need to “borrow” one.
But Rod had been involved in enough criminal investigations to know the D.A. would never be able to make murder-one charges stick without an eyewitness or some hard evidence. Taking Charlie’s truck without permission was a far cry from homicide.
Grimacing, Rod began to make a bigger deal of the pain in his leg than necessary. He wanted to appear hobbled, weak and vulnerable. “Hurts like hell,” he muttered, and allowed the barrel of the gun to dip, as though he believed James enough to be distracted by his own wound.
“I have a cell phone in my pocket,” he said. “If you’ll let me get it out, I’ll make that call.”
He was putting on a good show, but Rod wasn’t convinced. He blinked several times as if he was having trouble clearing his vision—which he was, thanks to the sweat rolling from his hair. “Do it slowly,” he said.
“I will.” While James stuck his hand into the front pocket of his jeans, Rod could sense that his attention was elsewhere. He’d spotted the gun Rod had tossed away as he left the closet. It was lying on the floor within reach….
James pushed three buttons on his phone and held it to his ear. “Hello? Yes. This is James Simpson. I’m at 1184 White Rock Road and would like to report a shooting incident. Someone’s been injured and needs medical help right away. Please send an ambulance.”
Pretending to struggle with a fresh surge of dizziness, Rod closed his eyes and sagged against the wall. And that was when James made his move. Throwing his phone at Rod, he dove for the gun. But Rod deflected the phone and shot James in the butt.
“Ow! You shot me!” he screamed. “You son of a bitch! You tricked me and then you shot me!”