Sloane hops down, thanking Eamon, and we walk away from the platform. She's still grinning, pleased with herself as she wraps both of her arms around one of my biceps and leans on me.
"What did you tell Santa you want for Christmas?" I ask, mostly to distract myself from how exposed we are out here. There aren't too many people, but there are enough to make it challenging to decide who is a threat and who is friendly.
Her grin turns sly. "I told him I want a tall, dark, and handsome man to love me forever."
I roll my eyes. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it." She elbows me, laughing, and I feel the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. "You're an old man compared to me," she says, still teasing. "Twelve years. That's a whole different generation."
"You didn't seem to mind last night," I shoot back, and her cheeks flush as she bites her lower lip.
I'm about to continue tossing jabs at her when the first shot cracks through the air.
Sloane's body jerks backward, and she crumples. I'm moving before my brain registers what happened, catching her as she falls, my arms wrapping around her as we hit the cobblestones together. Her eyes are wide, mouth open in shock, and I can't breathe.
"Sloane!" My voice tears out of me as I look into her unfocused eyes that stare up at the string of lights overhead. "Sloane, stay with me. Look at me."
She's not responding. I press my hands to her chest, as if I'll find a wound, then remember the vest she's wearing.
"Sloane. Sloane, fucking answer me."
Another shot rings out, then another, but the square is already in chaos. People scatter, screaming, diving for cover behind booths and buildings. And I hear the echo of their return fire. But Sloane and I are too exposed out here.
Cal brought an army.
Figures emerge from the alleys and behind buildings with rifles raised. I count six, eight, ten—too many. They're fanning out, trying to surround the square, and the townspeople are caught in the open.
Then Sloane's eyelids flutter. Her chest rises with a shallow breath, then another. She's had the wind knocked out of her, but she's safe. The vest took the hit. She's going to wake up with bruised ribs and a killer headache, but she's going to wake up.
Relief and rage collide in my chest as I haul her up, ignoring the pain in my knees from where I hit the ground, and drag her toward the nearest cover—a wooden booth selling wreaths and garland. I prop her against the back wall then press two fingers against her neck to feel her strong pulse.
Then I pull my Glock, flicking off the safety as I rise. The square's a war zone now. Muzzle flashes light up the darkness, and the crack of gunfire drowns out the Christmas music still playing from tinny speakers. A man in a black coat advances toward the tree, and Miles drops him with two shots. Another shooter takes position behind the fountain, and Varen's rounds punch through the stone, sending chips flying.
I lean out from behind the booth, sight down my barrel, and fire. The first round catches a shooter in the shoulder, spinning him. The second hits center mass and he drops.
A bullet splinters the wood inches from my head, making me duck back instantly. Adrenaline sharpens everything down to a single focus in such a familiar way, I fall into lockstep with my natural instincts. Three more shooters moving in from the east side. I track the closest one, lead him slightly, and squeeze the trigger. He goes down hard.
"Dane!" Varen's voice cuts through the chaos. He's pinned behind the cider stand, reloading. "They're trying to flank from the north!"
I glance that direction and see two figures creeping along the building line, using the shadows for cover. I fire twice, forcing them back, but I'm too far to get a clean shot.
Varen breaks from his position, sprinting across the open square with his shotgun raised. He's fast and reckless, and the covering fire from the townspeople keeps the shooters' heads down long enough for him to close the distance.
When the shotgun booms twice, one of the flankers drops, but there are more filing in behind him.
When my gun clicks, the slide locked back in place, I drop the clip and reload quickly. It's muscle memory at this point. I glance at Sloane, knowing I can't stay here with her anymore, and pray she keeps her head down when she comes to.
A shooter appears at the edge of the booth, swinging his rifle toward me, but I'm faster. I put three in his chest before he can return fire and step around the corner to lay more cover fire forMiles this time, who's trying to take out more men swinging in from the north.
The square is littered with bodies now, both theirs and—God—some of ours. I see Gideon slumped behind his ornament stand, blood spreading across the snow, but I can't see where he's hit. And Mira's dragging someone to safety behind the bar. I can't tell who it even as she's dragging, but the blood trail isn't encouraging. These men are offering their lives and perhaps their livelihoods for me, defending their town with pride and honor.
But guilt gnaws at me as I realize this is what I brought to their town, this violence.
I move farther into the fray and strengthen my resolve. This won't be over until we put Cal Maddox in a wooden box six feet under, so I'm not stopping until that happens.
"Dane, here!" I hear someone shout, and I turn over my shoulder to see Travis locked in a fist fight with another man. But I'm patient until he drops to his knees, taking the shot only when Travis is clear of my aim, and I drop the man to his knees clutching his throat as blood spurts out. Travis nods at me and stands up, stepping over the man as he picks up his gun and runs back toward the battle.
Call it war, or call it self-defense. One way or another, we're going to stop these bastards from destroying our peaceful little town.
