“You ready?” Josh asked.
Ivy ran up to him. “I’m ready, Josh!” She lifted her arms so he could pick her up and Josh obliged, propping her against his shoulder as he walked her out to his truck and set her in her booster seat.
“Pretty soon you’ll be too heavy for Josh to lift,” Tory said, blushing at the thought of how easily he carried her into the bedroom whenever it suited his fancy.
They dropped Ivy off at Clara Thompson’s and headed the pickup toward Dallas. For the past few days, the weather had been in the nineties. Today was even hotter, the sun burning down so that mirages formed on the asphalt in the road ahead as the truck rolled along.
The camera shop, McFarland’s, was in a strip mall on Northwest Highway in Garland. They took I-30 toward Dallas, turned onto 645 north, exited the freeway, and a few minutes later, the pickup pulled into the lot and parked in a space right in front of the shop.
The stores were all glass-windowed, and a grassy, treed meridian bordered the opposite side of the parking lot.
McFarland’s appeared to sell high-quality equipment and be as professional as Internet reviews suggested. Tory started looking at low-priced cameras, but Josh insisted on purchasing something better.
“We’ll be changing the photos as horses come and go and the ranch continues to grow. We’ll be using the camera a lot more than once.”
She loved it when he saidwe, as if they were a team, as if she were important to him. It was stupid. She had no idea how long she would be staying on the ranch, how long before he grew tired of her and was ready to move on.
He’d made no promises, never hinted at a long-term relationship. Whatever happened, she’d do a good job for him while she was there.
She ended up choosing a Canon EOS Rebel DSLR camera, which came with an extra lens. They also purchased a sturdy tripod, flash attachment, a light boom arm stand, filters, memory cards, additional batteries, and a canvas gadget bag.
They were walking out of the shop, their arms full of merchandise, when one of her white hoop earrings fell off and bounced on the sidewalk. As Josh bent down to pick it up, a gunshot echoed and a chip flew out of the stucco building exactly where his head had just been.
“Get down!” Camera gear went flying, hitting the sidewalk and scattering all over as Josh shoved her to the ground, shielding her with his body. Moving together, they crab-walked, scrambled, and crawled to reach cover behind the front wheel of the closest vehicle, a silver SUV parked next to the truck.
“Stay here!” Josh pulled his pistol from the holster at his waist. “Call 9-1-1!”
Her purse, which had survived the fall, still hung from the strap over her shoulder. Her hands shook as she dug out her disposable phone and hit the emergency call number she had programmed into her cell.
Staying low, Josh peered around the front of the vehicle. Another shot echoed, slammed into the hood, and he moved, firing off several rounds, running hard to a new location.
The dispatcher answered. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
Her heart was hammering, her palms sweating. “Someone is . . . is shooting at us. We’re in front of McFarland’s Camera store in Garland. We need help!”
Shots echoed. Josh returned fire and moved again, rolled behind a sturdy trash can, popped up, fired, and moved.
“Stay on the line, ma’am. I’ve got help on the way.”
She was trembling. “I think the man shooting at us is . . . is wanted by the FBI. Could you call Agent Quinn Taggart? Tell him it’s Victoria Bradford and Joshua Cain.”
“All right. Please, stay on the line, ma’am.”
Tory gripped the phone tighter as Josh fired again and ran toward the assailant, rapidly closing the distance between them. Tory couldn’t breathe. She thought of the soldiers who had been killed and said a silent prayer for Josh. Then she prayed the police would get there quickly.
“Please, God . . . please . . .”
Josh crouched low. He knew exactly who the shooter was—the same man who had murdered Pete and Coy. The terrorist who wanted vengeance for the death of the mullah’s Al-Qaeda son.
Josh fired toward the spot where the last shot had come from. The shooter was on the move, searching for a new position, but he hadn’t given up yet. Josh caught a flash of color between two parked cars on the opposite side of the parking lot near the grassy meridian. He fired off two rounds and started running, managed to skirt some cars and flatten himself behind the trunk of a tree.
A low hedge ran in front of the vehicles on that side of the lot. Staying low, he ducked behind the hedge. Running along beside it, moving quietly now, he circled around, working to get behind the shooter.
He spotted the man up ahead, tall and thin with a heavy beard, his attention still fixed on Josh’s last position. Josh eased closer. The hedge provided visual cover, but it wouldn’t stop a bullet.
As the shooter prepared to move again, he spotted Josh, whirled, and fired, the bullet tearing through the shrubbery, missing him by inches. Josh fired back, hitting his target in the chest, knocking him backward into the parking lot, his head slamming against the pavement.
It took sheer force of will not to pull off another round, but he wanted the man alive, knew the feds needed the information the terrorist could provide.
