He’s going too fast on the caliche road, and the tires lose their grip, spinning him out into several rows of grapevine.My heart is in my throat, but the car stays on all four wheels. I turn back, and Everett is leaning against the doorframe.
“Stay here!” I yell, racing for the carport, the .45 still in my hand. I get there about a minute and a year later, nearly falling to my knees in gratitude.
“They only ever catch the bad guys because of stupid luck,” I mutter to myself, eyeing the enormous sniper rifle, still in the gun rack, the backpack sitting like a puppy anxious for a ride in the passenger seat. I race to the driver’s side and hop in, tossing the handgun in the bag as I hit the push start, hoping this thing has some get up and go.
Based on the amount of rubber I just left on the concrete pad, I’d say yes.
Not caring in the slightest about the gunrunner’s begonias, I do a loop of the circular drive and pull up as close to the house as I dare, lining up the passenger side with the front door. I nearly sob when I see Everett hugging the limestone siding, in terrible pain but upright. He pulls himself into the truck, his hand gripping my wounded shoulder as he settles into the seat.
Just being honest here, it’s possible I have slightly-more-than-a-flesh-wound on my shoulder.
I race through the arch as Everett pulls out his phone. Seconds later, Anders’ East Texas accent booms from the speakerphone.
“Everett, you dog! I thought you’d be in bed. Why the fuck’re you calling me?”
I’ve got the car in my sights, making its way out of the vines to the winding white gravel road, but Everett isn’t saying anything. His face is etched with pain, and he’s gripping his side, breathing funny.
“Anders, it’s me,” I say, unable to keep the shaking out of my voice.
“Shit, Rafi. What’s going on?”
Honestly, I nearly lose it at the note of concern in his voice, but I can’t afford to go apeshit right now. My words are shaky, but I force them out, terrified for what might happen if I don’t. “He has Parker, and Everett’s been shot. I’m trying to catch up with them now; I’ve got the rifle and the utility truck.”
“Where was Everett shot?”
“Um, in the living room?”
The asshole kidnapping my friend has finally made his way back to the caliche, where he nearly spins out again and is forced to go a little slower, though the car’s suspension is taking a beating.
Anders’ voice is frustrated and patient. “On his body, Rafi. Whereon his bodywas he shot?”
“Oh, yeah. He was shot in his side. I’m pretty sure I saw an exit wound when he got into the truck.”
“You have him in the truck?”
My stomach clenches when I hear the disbelief and worry in his voice.
“He’s bleeding! I need to kill that motherfucker, get the car back, grab Parker, and take Everett to the hospital.”
There’s a beat of silence on the phone that nearly kills me, but then Anders’ reassuring voice comes back on. “Alright, alright. I’ve got the gang on it. Less than thirty minutes.”
“This’ll be over in five,” I grit out. “What are we close to? Johnson City? What hospital should I go to after I put a hole in this guy’s skull?”
The fucking asshole driver is back in the grapevines again, but closer to the road this time, and he unsnarls himself easily. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Anders lets out a heavy breath. “I have privileges at Hill Country Memorial, but that’s…at least twenty minutes from where you’re at.”
“I’ll be there in a little over twenty minutes,” I say, ending the call to refocus on the road.
I push it as fast as I can down the long, winding unpaved drive, desperate to cut the distance, and I don’t remember it being so hilly or rough. I couldn’t put the seat belt on Everett because of his wound, and I’m trying desperately not to jostle him around. We have no chance of catching up with the souped-up car, but the utili-truck’s all-terrain tires are giving me better grip than Everett’s heavy classic car, so I’m not losing ground.
It’s all over if they hit the highway.
Finally, I find a good enough vantage point, skidding to a halt at the top of a hill, angling the flatbed toward my target. I grab the backpack and spare a look at Everett. He’s breathing and his eyes track mine, but he’s pale and clammy.
God, I hope I haven’t made it worse.
I grab the backpack and throw it onto the flatbed, then haul the gun down. I send up a silent prayer that the bumpy ride hasn’t fucked up the scope entirely.
