to put some distance between the bastard and Becca.
Crack… crack.
The passenger window next to Becca shattered.
Rio’s heart shot into his throat.
“Becca?” he roared, chancing a quick glance in her direction.
“I’m okay,” she yelled back, her voice shaky and weak. She was hunkered down in her seat, well below the dashboard. She’d pulled her legs inside, but the door still stood wide open.
“Grab the door,” he ordered again. The shooter was too far in front now to target her through the open door, but the last thing they needed was her tumbling out into the street.
He roared past Herrera and Simmons, who were driving the sidewalk stragglers to safety. As the officers followed their charges into an overhanging archway and took position on either side of the entry, Rio hit the all-channels button on the radio mounted to the dashboard—sending his broadcast to every radio in the precinct.
“Shots fired. Officers under fire. Eight thousand block, Aero Drive,” he said into the radio, still accelerating bat-fuck-crazy backward.
A second of silence, followed by a flurry of staticky questions. Herrera’s calm voice joined in, updating the dispatcher.
A car turned onto the street behind him.
“Hang on to your seat,” he said grimly as he slammed on the brakes and cranked the wheel. The Crown Vic spun in a one-eighty. He hit the accelerator again.
He needed to contact Fuentes. Update him about this new development. But first order of business was getting his charge to safety and a couple of watchdogs to babysit her.
Because there was no doubt about it now. Someone was trying to kill her.
Chapter Six
Becca choked back a scream, her stomach heaving as Rio slammed on the brakes and swung the car into a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree spin.
The momentum of the turn slammed the passenger door into her right side, where it bounced off her shoulder. She gritted her teeth, forcing back another scream as pain ricocheted out from the impact point—jolting across her shoulder and down her arm in incandescent spikes of agony.
“Grab the door,” Rio said in a calm voice, his gaze flickering toward her.
“Sure.” Becca grimaced at the faintness of her voice, wishing she sounded as calm and casual as he did.
But then he was probably used to being shot at, first as a Navy SEAL, then a police officer, and now a detective. His career choices practically begged for late-afternoon shoot-outs, followed by cruising speeds of a hundred miles an hour.
“Becca!” He shot another quick glance at the yawning abyss along her right side.
“I know. I know. The door.” She blew out an aggravated breath.
She anchored herself in place by grabbing the edge of the seat. Without looking down at the endless ribbon of black whistling below her, she leaned outside the cruiser far enough to grab the door handle. The agony pulsing across her shoulder escalated to knife jabs and volcanic lava as she struggled to pull the door toward her. When it finally clicked into place, she groaned in relief and collapsed into her seat.
Sweaty and shaky, she looked down at her right shoulder. Why did it hurt so bad? Had the door’s impact broken a bone?
Queasy joined sweaty and shaky when she caught sight of the moist, red fabric of her blouse. Fabric that used to be white. Her gaze dropped to her right hand and the crimson beads that dripped steadily to the floor.
A broken shoulder or arm wouldn’t bleed. Would they?
She scanned her right side again. Nothing looked bent or broken or out of whack. It just looked bloody. Maybe the edge of the door had sliced her skin… but she didn’t see a rip in the fabric of her blouse.
High on her shoulder though, just below the fleshy curve, she found a blood-soaked, frayed hole in the fabric. A bullet-sized hole.
Bullet wounds bled like the dickens. She knew that from the movies.
Her brain went dark and fuzzy, buzzing with shock. Someone had shot her! Which certainly explained the blood and pain. Except… she hadn’t felt the bullet hit. Would she have been so oblivious to something so traumatic? In the movies, shooting victims realized they’d been shot immediately. Maybe adrenaline had masked the impact? Was that even possible?
“Uh, Rio?”
“Yeah?” His voice was absent. His gaze didn’t budge from the road. But the car suddenly slowed. “Hang on. I need to talk to my CO.”
“Sure,” Becca said, her voice thin.
With her heart beating way too hard and fast, she instinctively clamped her left palm to the ragged hole in her blouse, as though she could keep