Screaming came from the other room. They all turned and hurried into the diner.
Mal reached Pippa just as sirens trilled in the distance. She was leaning over a woman on the shattered ground, pressing her hands against a leg wound. She looked up, her blue eyes already wide and in shock.
Relief slashed him that she was all right. Everything inside him wanted to pick her up and hold her.
The sirens got louder.
Panic replaced the shock across her face.
* * *
Pippa sat next to Trixie in the back of a parked ambulance, a blanket over her shoulders and her legs swinging. The diner parking lot was awash in the swirl of blue and red lights. Local cops, ATF, even FBI agents had already arrived.
The wounded had been taken to hospitals and the dead had been put into body bags.
“We should’ve run the second they let us outside,” Trixie said again.
“That would’ve raised more suspicion,” Pippa countered, watching Malcolm finish talking to a couple of guys with big yellow FBI letters across their jackets. She needed to know he was near. “Just remember who you are now.” Her shoulders trembled, and she tried to stop it. She might never get warm again.
“When they first started shooting, I thought . . .” Trixie stared at the lights across the lot.
“Me too,” Pippa whispered. “But they don’t want us dead. If they find us, they’re taking us back.” Especially her. She was special inhiseyes, after all. For now, she couldn’t stop watching Malcolm. He worked the scene methodically, his gaze returning to her often. He’d protected her and taken down that gunman like some hero in a television show. Her body heated. Finally.
Then an agent of about fifty started walking their way.
Trixie tensed.
“We’re covered,” Pippa whispered in reminder. “Just be you.”
The agent wore long gray slacks and a crisp white shirt beneath her FBI jacket. Her black hair was thick and curly, her brown eyes sharp and intelligent. “I’m sorry about the wait, ladies. We wanted to talk to as many of the wounded as we could before they were taken to the hospital.” Her accent was South Georgia and sultry smooth.
“We were under a table,” Trixie blurted out.
The agent nodded. “That was smart. My name is Special Agent Mykisha Jackson, and if you’re up to it, I’d like to get your statements.” The agent’s tone recommended that they be up to it.
Pippa cleared her throat. “We arrived at eleven this morning for lunch.”
“Let’s start with your names and your addresses,” Jackson said easily, taking out a battered notepad. “Your name?”
“Pippa Smith,” Pippa said, watching Malcolm approach from the corner of her eye. A part of her heated and flushed, and the other part felt pathetically grateful. Could he stop the questioning? She gave her address.
The agent arched her eyebrows. “That’s quite a drive for lunch.” She waited expectantly.
“We like to go antique shopping,” Pippa said, her voice trembling. She’d memorized the speech in case they were ever questioned, but she hadn’t imagined a scene like this. “So we meet here for lunch and hit the antique shops in the area. It’s our hobby.”
Malcolm reached them, his gaze intense. “Are you sure you’re both all right?”
Pippa nodded, while Trixie remained frozen in place.
Jackson eyed Malcolm. “Have you finished giving your statement?”
Mal nodded. “Yes. I’ve turned over my gun and phone as well. My guess is that they’d bugged Comstock’s phone. I’ve been off the grid.”
“Damn lawyers,” Jackson grumbled, turning back to her notepad.
Mal nodded, his gaze raking Pippa. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“No,” she murmured honestly. “When the shooting started, we tried to run out of the booth and would’ve just been killed.” Her instincts had been terrible. “If you hadn’t shoved us under the table, we’d be dead.” Her entire body hurt all of a sudden.
