But if he’d known Hannah was so underdressed for the weather, he could have at least brought extra clothing. Andshoes.
Waaahhh-woo-waaahhh!
His jaw clenched when loudspeakers mounted to the sides of the building let loose with a squall that turned the cold night air into a wall of sound.
The guardian angel who’d helped Hannah make it this far had just spread her wings and flown the coop. Or, as the guys in his old regiment used to say,Looks like we got ourselves a bit of a snafu.
As in…situation normal, all fucked up.
The feds knew their prisoner had escaped. And they were happy to let the whole world know too.
“Hannah!” He waved to catch her attention. But she was already heading in his direction. Her bare feet pounded across the pavement. Her brightly colored hair flew out behind her. And the ends of the blanket flapped like the wings of a drunken bird.
He was off the bike in a flash after toeing out the kickstand. And he’d made it to the fence when the first responding agent rounded the corner of the building, weapon up and at the ready.
“Halt!” the man yelled.
Or at least that’s what Samthoughthe heard over the cacophony of the wailing alarm.
He had unzipped his coat and placed a hand on the butt of his Glock 19 before he’d consciously made the decision to move. Muscle memory was a beautiful thing.
“Stop! Get on the ground!” Another agent called. This one appeared in the doorway she’d recently vacated.
Pulling his sidearm from his shoulder holster, Sam alternated his aim between the two agents all while keeping a close eye on Hannah’s progress.
That’s it!he silently encouraged her.Keep those little legs moving!
For such a short woman, she couldrun. Then again, terror had a way of lending the human body an unnatural amount of speed and strength. One need look no further than the stories of mothers lifting whole-ass cars off their trapped children to know that much was true.
“Halt or I’ll shoot!” the first agent shouted and Sam refocused his aim as a ball of dread hardened in his stomach.
If the bastard pulled his trigger—forcing Sam to pull his—there was no telling if he could hit the weapon in the agent’s hand. Because even though he was the best marksmen the Raiders had ever seen, the distance to the agent was substantial. And the difference between putting a bullet through the fed’s service sidearm and sending a slug straight through the man’s hand, probably ending his career, was a matter of inches.
“Don’t do it,” he grumbled under his breath. “Don’t you fucking do it, you sonofa—”
He saw the muzzle flash before he heard the weapon’s report. His response was immediate.
Again, muscle memory.
And years of putting a thousand pounds of lead downrange.
He’d taken his shot and was already returning his attention to Hannah when the fed yelped as his weapon caught Sam’s round and flew from his fingers.
Hannah stumbled too, the blanket falling from her shoulders.
For a split second, Sam thought she’d been hit. And in that split second, a wrecking ball slammed into his chest. Then she righted herself, leaving the blanket on the pavement behind her, and continued her mad dash across the blacktop.
His desperate eyes roved over her hurtling form. But he could see no blooming red flower to indicate she’d taken a bullet. There was no hitch in her step. No cry of pain.
He nearly dropped to his knees in relief.
His respite was short-lived, however, because a stream of feds—he counted five in all—joined the remaining agent at the exit before bubbling out of the building like ants racing from an anthill.
“Faster, Hannah!” he bellowed, climbing onto the bottom rung of the fence. It was one of those fancy wrought-irons jobs, made up of straight posts held together by two horizontal bracing bars. Thankfully, it was only five-feet tall.
“Sam!” The sheer terror in her voice had him gritting his teeth.
“Keep coming, sweetheart!” He made a come-hitcher motion with one hand even as he kept his aim on the group of agents chasing her across the brightly lit expanse.
