“Halt, Police!” Colt yelled.
The suspect swung an automatic rifle in their direction and sprayed the sidewalk with bullets.
Colt scooped Rusk up with one arm, twisted away from the shooter to shield Maren and her dog, who dove to the side between two cars.
The pounding of feet had his gaze jerking back in time to see the shooter running away and rounding the corner. He clenched his jaw with frustration.
Focusing back on the officer, he studied her face. High cheek bones, soft blue eyes and honey brown hair highlighted with golden streaks. She wore dark pants, a navy blazer and a white blouse. He recognized the bulk of a bulletproof vest beneath the top. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said, though there was a definite tremor to her voice. She stood. “You?”
He shook his head as his gaze snagged on a small cross necklace around her neck glinting in the sunlight. Apparently, the simple symbol of her faith was the only jewelry she wore. Not that he was looking at her ring finger.
But still, he noted the lack of a wedding band.
Her dog sat at her side, dark eyes watching him and Rusk. To Rusk’s credit, the pointer, usually high-strung and raring to go, remained calm though poised to take off at any second.
“Look, I’m sorry if I offended you earlier,” Colt said. “Help me understand what’s happening here. You’re the spitting image of the woman who just entered the clinic.”
Ignoring him, the K-9 officer and her partner hurried back the way they’d come and went straight to the sheriff, a big man wearing a brown uniform and cowboy hat. Colt and Rusk trailed after them but kept a distance so she could give the sheriff her account of what happened. The sheriff sent deputies into the building across the street.
Colt doubted they would find the perpetrator. But hopefully the sniper would have left behind brass to give them a clue.
The sheriff, whose name tag read Wallen, and the K-9 officer turned toward him as he and Rusk halted at the woman’s side.
“Sheriff Wallen.” Colt held out his hand. “DEA. Colt Dawson.”
The sheriff’s handshake was firm. “Maren here was telling me you showed up seconds after the shots were fired.”
“Yes, sir. I was down the street surveilling a suspect,” Colt said.
Maren. He liked that name. Strong. Stubborn. Like the woman who bore the name.
“What’s the DEA’s involvement here?” Maren demanded to know.
Arching an eyebrow, he said, “I received a tip-off that an associate of a drug kingpin who I’m trying to bring down was lying low in this fair town.”
“I wasn’t informed of your presence,” Wallen huffed.
“It was a last-minute operation,” Colt explained. Though he’d had time to reach out to the local law enforcement, he wasn’t sure whom to trust. Colt had been on the case tracking Shadow for nearly a year, and the suspect, yet to be identified, always seemed to be one step ahead of the authorities. Because he had moles within the justice system?
“You mentioned my sister by name,” Maren said. “What makes you think my twin is still alive?”
Surprise washed through him. Sisters. Twins. That explained the resemblance. “You saw her with your own eyes. Opal Anderson is not dead despite reports saying otherwise. She’s the girlfriend of an associate of one of the DEA’s most wanted criminals.”
Maren’s brow wrinkled as she digested this information. Colt’s gaze dropped to her bow-shaped mouth, tracing her full lips. Then he jerked his gaze up and met her blue eyes.
There was no way he was going to let a pretty face and an interesting personality infiltrate the barriers he’d erected around his heart. The last time he’d dropped his defenses, he’d paid the price.
Disconcerted by the unwelcome direction of his thoughts, he turned to the sheriff. “If you need anything else from me, give me a call.” He handed the sheriff one of his business cards. “I’ve a job to do. I need to find my suspect.”
Colt and Rusk strode away while he ticked off the seconds in his head. How long would it take for Officer Maren Anderson to catch up?
* * *
Seething, Maren watched the arrogant and irritating DEA agent heading for the clinic door, which now was just a metal frame with broken glass littering the sidewalk. The man stopped, patted his chest and the shorthaired pointer jumped into his arms.
If the agent thought he was going into the clinic without her, he was horribly mistaken.
