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I’m out of my truck, gun in hand, the next second.
Another flash—this time I hear the dulled sound of the gunshot—and I take aim at the Lexus. The back window shatters and suddenly the SUV tears off with squealing tires, and I start running to the car.
I don’t even realize I’m yelling her name.
3
Luna
I heard the SUV speed off, but I’m staying ducked under the steering wheel. I have no idea who else is out there, shooting.
“Luna!”
My head shoots up at the sound of Ouray’s tortured yell, and I hit my head on the steering column—hard. My hand grabs for the back of my head just as my door is yanked open.
“Jesus… Oh fuck, baby.”
I try to lift my head, more carefully this time, but his large hands keep me in place. In the background I can hear sirens approaching.
“Ouray, let me up.”
“Stay put, Sprite. Don’t—”
“Police! Show me your hands!”
Great. I can hear the urgency in the cop’s voice, along with an edge of panic. They wouldn’t know Ouray from Adam and all they’d see is a large, scruffy biker bending over me. Not a good scene.
“Ouray, listen to them, please.”
“Screw ‘em. You’re hurt. Let me see.”
“Show your fucking hands!”
“I’m fine, now do as they say and let me get up,” I urge him; afraid they’ll shoot him next.
“Police! Back away from the vehicle!” Another voice joins the first.
“Ouray!”
“All right, all right,” he grumbles, backing out of the car.
Before I can pull myself all the way from my hiding spot, I hear a yelp followed by a thud. I scramble out of the car to find Ouray facedown in the road, Taser wires sticking out of his back while two cops struggle to get handcuffs on him.
“FBI.” I pull my badge from my pocket and hold it up for the two to see. “Special Agent Luna Roosberg Strongbow. The man you’re holding down is my husband.”
“You’re shitting me,” the younger of the two looks down at Ouray before checking me out.
“She’s not.” My head swings around to see Damian jogging up. “SAC Gomez, La Plata County FBI.”
Just as the cops reluctantly let Ouray up, I notice my target’s car backing out of the driveway. “Gomez, target’s on the move.”
Damian looks in the car’s direction and whips out his phone, barking instructions.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in the back of an ambulance, getting a few butterfly bandages to close the cut on the back of my head and Ouray is cursing up a storm as the second EMT twists the Taser prongs from his skin. I haven’t spoken to him yet; I’m too pissed.
Damian sticks his head in the door. “Both targets are in custody,” he informs me.
“Shit. That wasn’t according to plan,” I point out.
