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“Don’t, my legs are longer. I’ll kick and drop down, you try and get a good look at what’s going on out there. Dammit, we could use some body armor right now.”
From the sound of the gunfire, Briar didn’t think whoever was shooting was aiming for the exit doors.
“Body armor would be nice, yes. Next time.”
Royce kicked out hard at the push bar and immediately dropped to the ground. The right-side door flung open and daylight streamed inside, making it hard to see beyond the door frame.
Squinting, Briar spotted a gleaming, low-slung dark car she assumed was the hearse and beyond that, a stand of trees, most of which had already lost their leaves. There was a roaring sound and she swung around to see the tail of a motorcycle roaring out of the parking lot.
“Shit!”
The sound of the engine faded into the distance, leaving Briar listening to the pounding of her heart.
She wanted to jump in the 4Runner and chase after it but for one, Royce had the keys, and two, the damn thing would probably crap out. And… not getting shot was a life goal. The way bullets were flying around Rexville, she was concerned there was one with her name on it, just waiting for its chance.
The door started to shut again. Royce glanced at her and she shook her head. “Nothing else that I can see, just the hearse. The cycle is gone, headed west on the highway.”
“Nothing my direction either. On three, we’ll crawl out and take cover by the hearse. Could you tell what kind of bike it was?”
Briar shook her head. “Big, likely a Harley. Definitely a cruiser and the plate was obscured.”
“Of course, it fucking was. On three.” He motioned forward with two fingers and Briar belly-crawled out into the parking lot. The backpack hampered her movements, but she wasn’t ditching it and her laptop unless she had to. They reached the hearse without issue, and she was starting to feel ridiculous. Were they overreacting?
No.
Royce flopped next to her against the side of the hearse.
“This is fucked up.”
“Don’t you military types say FUBAR?”
“Details.”
A buzzing sound startled them, and it took them both a second to realize it was Royce’s phone ringing in his pocket. He tugged it out but didn’t answer, instead pressing decline and texting the caller.
“Telling Caleb and Bishop to get their asses over here,” he muttered.
Briar didn’t let her guard down. While Royce typed, she crawled to the end of the hearse and peered around it, the back of her neck still twitchy. The motorcycle rider had raced away, but something was off. Nothing in front of her, or to either side. What the hell?
Then she heard it. A moan, or a groan. A human sound, someone in pain. She still couldn’t see who it may have come from.
Fucking hell.
As she was surveying the stand of trees, she heard it again.
“Royce,” she whispered as she tucked her backpack underneath the hearse, “there’s someone in the trees. Someone that may be hurt. I’m going to check.”
Without waiting for his response, Briar darted out at a crouch-run, heading across the parking lot to the treed area. She heard the groan again before she saw him, mostly hidden behind the trunk of a fir tree. A handgun lay just within the man’s reach, but he made no attempt to grab it.
Christian Jakes.
Christian Jakes was a handsome man, but not at the moment. His blond hair was filthy and plastered to his head, and his face was covered with blood. Instead of the overpriced suit she was used to seeing him wear around the office, he wore canvas hunting pants, Danner hiking boots, and a tight, black, long sleeve t-shirt that was wet with his blood.
“Jakes.” She fell to her knees beside him. “What the fuck is going on?”
His eyes opened a slit. “Nilson?” he slurred.
“Again, I say, what the fuck?”
