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He’s not here to make an arrest.
Before I can act, he takes aim. Unlike me, he doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
At the same time the shot goes off, Ian pushes me. I go down, hitting the pavement with a thwack. Pain shoots into my right hipbone and a burning sensation tears through my left shoulder. I know that kind of fiery pain. It comes from a bullet.
For crying out loud. Not again.
Ian blocks my body with his. He’s already pulled his gun and fires at Wolfe who takes shelter behind a car.
“Come on,” Ian screams, gripping my bicep and dragging me to my feet.
Blood runs down my arm. My bag and gun lie on the ground. The bottle of pills have fallen out and rolled to the curb. Ian takes a second to scoop up my bag and gather the gun and the pills before pulling me around the corner of the building, all the while shooting at the car.
In my head, I count. He has two bullets left. I have six in my gun.
His Jeep is parked across the road in the lot, but running there will make us open targets. He fishes the key from his pocket and shoves it into my hand.
“Here,” he says, his voice terse. “Run for the Jeep and get in. I’ll cover you.”
I want to say he won’t make it, that he’s sacrificing himself to get me to safety, but I don’t utter the words. They don’t make sense. He killed me once. Why save me now?
“Go,” he yells, not sparing a look at the blood dripping from my fingers onto the ground.
There’s no time to analyze anything. The burning in my shoulder is intense. Ignoring my heart’s protest, I sprint over the lot without looking back, not even as two more shots ring out behind me. Adrenaline fuels me. I crouch on the side of the Jeep where I’m protected and feel the door. It’s open. Almost yanking it off its hinges, I crawl inside to the center of the seat and insert the key in the ignition. The engine sputters as I turn the key.
Another shot echoes in the night. In the back of my mind, I register the people who’ve spilled out of the bar onto the street. One of them has a phone pressed to his ear, probably calling the police.
If Ian runs to the Jeep, he’s dead. I ease onto the seat behind the wheel, keeping as low as I can. My arm is immobilized, suddenly numb. I have to cross my good arm over to put the Jeep in gear. Gripping the wheel with one hand, I hit the gas. The Jeep swerves when I have to let the wheel go to change the gears. I don’t think. I simply act, speeding over the lot and across the road toward the side of the building where Ian has taken cover.
“Fuck,” he says as I stop next to him. “I told you to wait. Move over.”
Pressing a hand over the wound in my shoulder, I do as he orders. The pain makes me flinch. He gets behind the wheel, aims through the window, and shoots out two tires of a black city car parked on our side of the motel. The car wasn’t there before. It must be Wolfe’s. Flooring the gas, he spins the Jeep in a circle around the car, exchanges his empty gun for mine, and shoots out the remaining tires.
In another second, we’re out of there.
The wind whips the strands of the wig around my face as I turn in my seat to take stock of the danger. Wolfe runs out onto the lot, aiming at us, but we’re already too far away for him to get in a shot. His arms fall in defeat next to his body, his wide stance looking like an ominous promise as he stares after us.
“Fuck.” Ian hits the steering wheel. After a tense beat, he spares me a glance. “How are you keeping up?”
I bite my lip and push harder on my shoulder, but the blood keeps on pouring over my hand, hot and sticky. “I’m getting tired of being shot.”
He removes his jacket while he drives and presses it into my lap. “Put that on the wound.”
I crumple the butter-soft leather between my fingers. Unable to avoid the smell of tobacco that clings to the jacket, I press it against the wound.
Gently, he pushes me forward with a hand on my shoulder. “Fuck. It looks as if the bullet went straight through.”
I grit my teeth against the pain that suddenly sets in like a bitch. “Where are we going?”
“Helicopter.” His forehead is furrowed as he shoots me another look. “How’s your heart?”
I wince when we hit a pothole. “I took my pills.”
“Sorry, baby doll. It’s going to be rough ride. He’ll be coming after us.”
