But, the man simply kicks Dakota in the ribs for good measure, then hands over the gun. “I don’t want him to get off on a technicality at trial.”
I’m about to say something else, but the beeping on the countdown clock lets us know we’re out of time, and there’s no way we can drag Dakota’s body out of here now. I dart upstairs, Sheriff Fitzwarren hot on my heels, toward the back door. After fumbling a hot second with the keys, I manage to unlock the bar and push up the door.
We haul ass away from the farmhouse as the entire thing goes up with a blast that throws me twenty yards. I land face-down in a fucking cornfield.
A ball of fire rips through the air. The flames grow hotter by the minute. I roll onto my back and look up into the sky.
My ears are ringing. I can make out sirens in the distance. My shoulder throbs. Did I take shrapnel? Every muscle in my body aches.
When the house exploded, I waited for my life to flash before my eyes. But nothing happened. Could that be adrenaline? Or could it be I didn’t have a life to flash?
If I died in that explosion, my family wouldn’t have a body to bury. And someone would have to tell Ryan that I was gone.
I flip over to my hands and knees, throwing up on the ground.
The sirens grow louder.
My shoulder throbs harder.
Not exactly the last night undercover that I had in mind.
Holy hellfire.
