Colt saw him break from cover a second later, sprinting toward the SUV.
Another shot rang out, slicing through the air. And this time, the bullet was aimed at Harlan.
Brenna fired back without hesitation. “I’ve got you!” she yelled, aiming in the direction of the creek.
Colt followed her line of fire. He still couldn’t see the shooter, but he knew the bastard was out there, crouched in the shadows, using the trees and brush to his advantage.
The rifle shots from the creek bank stopped as Brenna’s return fire tore through the cover. Colt knew she hadn’t hit the guy, but she’d forced him to hunker down. Good. Colt hoped like hell he stayed that way so he couldn’t try to kill them again.
Harlan reached the SUV, flung open the door, and slid into the driver’s seat.
The SUV engine roared as Harlan sped toward them, tires grinding over gravel and dirt. Colt squinted through the pain in his ribs, watching the vehicle barrel forward, stopping just feet from their cover.
Naomi let out another panicked cry.
“The SUV’s bullet-resistant,” Colt snapped. “Get inside, now.”
Harlan leaned over from the driver’s seat and shoved the back door open. Brenna fired again toward the trees, each shot a warning. Naomi finally, thankfully, moved. She dropped low and scrambled into the back.
“You’re next,” Brenna told Colt, her voice edged with tension.
Colt clenched his jaw. His chest still burned from the impact, and every breath felt like dragging sandpaper through his lungs. But they weren’t out of this yet.
He shifted into a firing stance and raised his weapon toward the creek bank. “Get in,” he said. “Watch Naomi.”
Brenna’s gaze locked with his. Something raw passed between them—emotion, history, a connection they hadn’t shaken. Her jaw tightened.
“You better not get your ass shot off,” she said.
He gave her a strained smile. “Move.”
She went. Crouching low, she dove into the SUV and pulled the door shut behind her.
The front driver’s side door flew open. Harlan leaned out, rifle aimed at the tree line. He fired, giving Colt the opening he needed.
Colt sprinted, lungs screaming, and scrambled into the backseat beside Brenna and a sobbing Naomi.
The second the door slammed shut, Harlan got back in the SUV and gunned the engine.
The SUV tore away from the bridge, tires spitting dirt as they sped into the trees, leaving the gunfire behind.
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Chapter Eight
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The exam room at Crossfire Ops headquarters smelled faintly of antiseptic and strong coffee, and Brenna stood near the wall, arms crossed, trying to stay out of the way. Colt sat on the edge of the padded table, shirt off, his ribs mottled with a massive, angry bruise. The deep purple and red splotch spread across his left side, and Brenna couldn’t stop staring at it.
If the bullet had hit an inch or two farther left…
She didn’t let herself finish the thought.
Across from him, Beck Culver—Crossfire’s resident combat medic—grunted as he gently palpated Colt’s ribs. Beck was tall and broad-shouldered, with shaggy blond hair that she was betting wasn’t styled but fell as if it had been. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a biker magazine, not inside a pristine exam room with latex gloves and a stethoscope.
“You know, some guys just ask for attention,” Beck muttered, giving Colt a dry look. “All that running into gunfire, trying to be a damn hero. You could’ve just sent me a text if you wanted to stay in touch.”
Colt winced but smirked. “Wouldn’t want you getting rusty.”
