Page 62 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

His ears rang, his vision fractured, his body still convinced it was moving. Hudson blinked, the world swimming. His lungs refused to work. He dragged in a breath that tasted of burned propellant, his chest rising in agony against the seat belt’s restraint.

No stink of fuel.

He gritted his teeth and blinked again. Reality slammed back into focus.

Sarah.

The truck had come to rest on the driver’s side. Hudson hung above her, suspended by his belt. Sarah was below him, her head slumped against the airbag. Nothing looked obviously broken, but she wasn’t moving.

Everything inside him stopped.

He twisted and reached for her, his heart a violent hammer against his ribs. Airway. Breathing. Consciousness. Training shoved panic into a corner and took over.

Her chest rose.

Thank fuck. “Sarah. Sarah.” He grabbed her shoulder, dug his fingers in.

She gasped awake, her eyelids flickering for a moment before fully opening. “Hudson?”

A thin line of blood tracked from a cut above her eyebrow down the side of her face. Her eyes met his, unfocused for a second. A breath wheezed out of him, and everything narrowed back to something survivable.

She’s alive.

“Look at me. Can you breathe okay?” He slid a hand under her chin and tilted her head toward him.

“I’m fine.” She fumbled toward the seat belt release and missed it twice. “Ringing. Just ringing.”

Car doors slammed. Shouts.

He jerked around, twisting to see out the window. Snow spiraled through the headlights, each gust briefly erasing the men before revealing them again. Two dark figures advanced, one hanging back to cover, while the other closed the distance.

Hudson thumbed the seat belt release. Nothing. He hit it again, harder. Still locked.

Shit. Damn thing’s stuck.

Hudson kicked his door. It was jammed, buckled from the impact. Airbag powder and sweat stung his eyes every time he blinked. He abandoned the door. No time. His hand closed around his Glock.

“Deputy U.S. Marshal!” His voice cracked out flat and hard across the snow. “Show me your hands!”

He kept the sights on the nearer man’s chest, aware of the weight of the pistol in his hand, the spare magazine still riding on his belt. At least two shooters, no cover, and Sarah hurt beneath him.

Bad odds.

One of the men raised his free hand, his weapon held loosely at his hip. “The file, Marshal.”

The nearer man kept walking⁠—

“I said fucking stop.” Hudson kept his sights centered on the man’s sternum.

Both men froze, and the nearer one gestured.

A fucking signal.

The soft scrape of nylon on nylon from the rear of the truck.

Hudson cut his eyes toward the sound. Beyond the shattered rear window, another man advanced in a slow crouch, his gun aimed at Sarah. She was reaching for the radio, her fingers sliding off the button.

The man to the rear held out the palm of his hand. “Throw it out.”