Page 7 of Revival in Laurel Valley

A groan from outside. “I’m hit.”

Grant did a quick assessment of Liza—unconscious, bleeding from her temple where a metal tray had caught her on the way down, but breathing steadily. He grabbed a clean towel from behind the counter and pressed it against the wound.

Then he pulled out his phone.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Shots fired, Heavenly Delights Bakery, Main Street. Automatic weapon, drive-by on motorcycle. At least two injured including Sheriff O’Hara. Suspect fled north.”

He gave the details rapid-fire—black motorcycle, rider in dark clothing and full-face helmet, automatic weapon, maybe thirty rounds fired. The dispatcher’s voice was calm as she confirmed ambulance and backup were en route.

Grant ended the call and moved to the shattered front of the bakery, staying low.

Main Street was chaos. Tourists scattered, some screaming, others frozen in shock. A few were already filming with their phones. Shop owners peered out from behind locked doors, faces pale.

Blaze sat slumped against one of the wrought-iron tables outside the bakery, one hand pressed to his left shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers. His face was pale but his jaw was set, his other hand already on his radio.

Grant dropped beside him, pulling off his jacket. “How bad?”

“Through and through.” Blaze’s breath came in short pants. “Hurts like hell. Liza?”

“Unconscious, head wound, but breathing.” Grant pressed his jacket against Blaze’s shoulder. “Keep pressure on this.”

“The shooter⁠—”

“Gone. Motorcycle, automatic weapon.” Grant scanned the street. “Ryan Caine.”

Even through the pain, Blaze’s eyes sharpened. “She found you. I thought you said she was a sniper. Precise. Patient.” Blaze grimaced as he shifted position. “That attack was anything but.”

“She was.” Grant’s voice went hard. “A year ago, every attempt was calculated. Surgical. Car bombs with timers. Long-distance shots that missed by inches because she wanted me to know she was there. She was playing a game.” He looked at the shattered bakery. “As the months went on, the more unstable she became. But this is different. She’s stopped caring about precision. Stopped caring about collateral damage. Maybe stopped caring whether she lives through it.”

Blaze’s expression darkened. “That makes her more dangerous.”

“Yeah. A sniper who’s willing to die to take the shot? There’s no defending against that.”

A deputy came running from the direction of the sheriff’s office, weapon drawn, radio crackling. “I heard the shots—” He took in the scene and his face went white.

“Lane.” Blaze’s voice was steady despite the blood loss. “Secure the scene. Get statements from witnesses. Clear the street in case she comes back for another pass.”

“On it.” Lane was already on his radio, his initial shock replaced by training.

An SUV screeched to a halt at the edge of Main Street where the cobblestones met the regular road. A tall, sandy-haired man jumped out, medical bag in hand, and ran toward them with the easy stride of someone used to emergencies.

“Blaze!” He took in the scene with one practiced glance—the shattered bakery, the blood, the chaos. “Where are you hit?”

“Shoulder. Straight through, I think.” Blaze nodded toward the bakery. “Woman inside, unconscious⁠—”

“I’ve got him,” the man said to Grant. “You must be Boone. I’m Colt O’Hara, Blaze’s cousin. Go check on her.”

Grant didn’t need to be told twice. He ran back into the bakery, glass crunching under his boots. Liza lay exactly where he’d left her, the towel pressed to her temple dark with blood.

He knelt beside her, checking her pulse. Strong and steady. Her color was good. The bleeding had slowed. But she needed to wake up.

“Liza.” He touched her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Grant heard the organized chaos outside as Lane coordinated the response, as tourists were moved to safety, as the scene was secured.