"There. They're bugging out." Izzy was already shifting position, preparing to check the window.
She moved like liquid mercury, flowing from prone to a careful crouch. Every motion deliberate. No wasted energy, nounnecessary exposure. Cory had worked with SWAT teams that didn't move this smoothly.
"Dust plume, heading north. Single vehicle, moving fast." She turned from the window, already shifting gears. "Clear?"
"Clear?" Cory echoed, though he trusted her assessment completely.
"Clear. Shooter's gone." Without missing a beat, she pivoted toward Reed. "Let me see that arm."
Reed hadn't moved from his position against the wall, shock keeping him frozen. "This is MedFlight. Has to be. I knew too much?—"
"Reed, let me see your arm." Izzy's calm voice cut through his spiral.
She was already moving, tearing his shirt to expose the wound. Her hands stayed steady despite the adrenaline that had to be flooding her system. Quick pressure with the torn fabric to assess the bleeding.
"Robyn... my wife... she can't lose me too. Not after Sarah." Reed's voice broke on his daughter's name.
"She won't," Izzy said firmly. "I need my go bag from your vehicle," she told Cory.
He tossed her his keys without hesitation, then watched her approach to his SUV. Even now, even after confirming the shooter was gone, she didn't take chances. Low profile, checking angles, moving with purpose. The woman never stopped thinking like an operative.
She returned with the pack, already pulling out what she needed. QuikClot, Israeli bandage, medical tape. Her movements were economical, practiced—the hands of someone who'd dressed too many gunshot wounds in too many places where medevac wasn't an option.
"Through and through. You're lucky."
"Don't feel lucky," Reed muttered.
As she applied the QuikClot and began wrapping the wound, she continued her analysis. "From that distance, with that elevation advantage? A trained sniper could have put multiple rounds through our heads before we knew we were under fire. This was either an amateur or?—"
"Or a warning," Cory finished.
She glanced up at him, a flash of approval in those dark eyes. They were thinking along the same lines. Good.
Izzy secured the bandage. "Keep it elevated. You'll need proper medical attention, but this will hold."
White-faced, Reed nodded.
Cory met Izzy’s eyes. "We check the ridge."
“Copy that.” Of course she'd already reached the same conclusion.
Twenty minutes later, they were climbing the dirt road to the sniper's position. Reed had insisted on coming, refused to be left alone at the shot-up office. Cory couldn't blame him, though the man's pale face and shaking hands worried him.
While Cory kept his sidearm handy, Izzy drove with the same competence she brought to everything else, navigating the rough road while constantly checking mirrors, monitoring potential ambush points. Her Glock sat on the console between them, close at hand.
The sniper's nest was exactly where she'd predicted. Cory felt that familiar crime scene focus settle over him as they surveyed the area. Fresh tire tracks in the dirt—wide wheelbase suggesting a truck or SUV. No footprints.
Izzy crouched to study the ground. "No brass. Looks like shooter stayed in the vehicle."
"Makes sense." Cory photographed the tire patterns. "Quicker escape, some sound suppression. Not that there’d be anyone around to hear." The tiny airfield was miles outside town.
Reed stood apart, cradling his bandaged arm. "Professional cleanup crew?"
Something bothered Cory about that assessment. He couldn't put his finger on it, but this felt... different.
A glint in the dirt caught his eye. He knelt, brushed aside some disturbed earth. The remains of a mechanical pencil lay half-buried—clear plastic barrel cracked and split, the pocket clip bent at an odd angle. Someone had driven over it, grinding it into the desert hardpan. The mechanism was jammed, but he could see dark gray leads inside the broken chamber.
"What is it?" Izzy appeared at his shoulder.
