Fifteen feet away, Bree hit the grass. When Matt looked over, she wasn’t moving.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Where is Matt?
Pain roared through Bree’s left arm. She lay still, playing dead, moving only her eyeballs as she searched for him. In her peripheral vision, she saw him hunkered down behind a big rock. He had the rifle pointed at the garage.
He’s all right.
Bree scanned the garage but saw no signs of the shooter. Without moving, she looked for cover. She didn’t want the shooter to know she was alive until she found a barrier. About ten feet away, a big oak tree blotted out the night sky. The trunk was two or three feet in diameter.
That’ll do.
She exhaled hard. Her heart kicked against her ribs, her pulse rushing in her ears. She needed to move. Her position out in the open was too vulnerable. She took a deep breath, cradled her injured arm to her ribs, and rolled behind the tree. To protect the majority of her body, she scrambled into a sitting position and put her back to the trunk. She drew her gun and waited for gunshots in response to her movement. When the night remained silent, she reached for her phone with her left hand. More pain shot through her arm, and the wet warmth of fresh blood soaked her sleeve. She froze. After setting her gun in her lap, she used her right hand to turn on her radio, report shots fired, and request backup.
Thankfully, a unit was nearby. ETA five minutes.
Call complete, she exchanged the radio for her gun again. Weapon in hand, she peered around the tree and scanned the building. The shots had come through the window from inside the garage. Was he—or she—still inside?
Or had the shooter moved into a new position—one with a better shot at Bree or Matt?
She looked for movement but saw nothing. The broken window was dark and empty. She checked her watch. Four minutes until backup arrived. The flood of adrenaline had dulled the pain. Sweat rolled down the middle of her back and soaked her shirt under her duty belt. Cool air gusted over her, and she shivered. Hopefully she was just cold and not going into shock. While she’d been lying on the ground, water from the rain had soaked through her uniform pants.
The shooter could still be in the building.
She glanced at her phone, then returned her attention to the building.
ETA three minutes.
Still no sign of the shooter.
Bree kept watch. She marked off the seconds by the echo of her heartbeat in her wound. As long as she and Matt kept their heads down, they’d be OK until backup arrived.
Matt zigzagged across the grass, the movement startling her.
Her heart punched into her throat.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He scrambled up next to her. He stayed low and kept the tree between him and the shooter, but he was partially exposed. He held his rifle across his lap and kept it aimed at the garage.
“You should have stayed where you were!” she said in a harsh whisper.
“You’re shot.”
“I know. I don’t want you to be shot too.” Bree glanced at her arm. Blood saturated her sleeve to the elbow. Her arm continued to pulse with an adrenaline-dulled throb. She looked him over. “You’re OK?”
“Yes.” Matt’s face was pale and drawn. “Can you watch the building?”
“Yes.” She craned her head around the tree. “Did you see the shooter?”
“No.” He set down the rifle and ripped open her sleeve.
Bree kept her eye on the garage, but she saw nothing. Then again, she hadn’t seen the shooter before he shot her either. “He could be anywhere.”
“I don’t have anything to bandage this with.” He ripped off the rest of her sleeve, folded it, and pressed it to the wound. “Hold this.” He removed one of his bootlaces and tied it around her arm. “The wound isn’t that deep—a straight furrow—but you need to hold still. You’re making it bleed more.”
“Backup should be here in a minute. Until then, we have to sit tight. I won’t bleed to death in the next couple of minutes.” But Bree felt a fresh rush of blood from her wound soak the makeshift bandage.
“You might if you don’t keep still.” Matt’s voice was grim.
Bree tucked her thumb into her duty belt to immobilize her arm.
They couldn’t retreat. There was no cover between them and their vehicle.
The seconds ticked by. Bree’s wound pulsed.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
It seemed longer than a minute before sirens approached. The first sheriff’s department vehicle