She fell silent.
The hair on the back of Christian’s neck rose.He paused, eyes narrowing, the downpour hammering against the roof and ground in deafening sheets.
A shot cracked through the storm.
He turned instantly, lunged, and drove the group to the ground just as another round ripped through the space where they’d been standing.Water exploded off the gravel.The sound of the rain masked the direction of the gunfire, echoing off buildings, cars, metal.
“Move.”He grabbed Amka and hauled her toward the front tire of her SUV.She tried to speak but didn’t get the chance.He put her on her ass, one hand firm on the back of her neck as he pushed her face down to her legs.“Knees.Stay low.”
Amka folded without resistance, rain soaking her hair, water running in streams over her shoulders.
May scrambled toward the rear tire, dragging Wyland with her.He slipped once in the mud, and she pulled harder, gritting her teeth.Another shot shattered the rear window of the vehicle.Glass scattered over the pavement, slick and invisible.The next shot hit the tavern’s window.
Christian didn’t flinch.He crouched, yanked his phone from his back pocket, and called without even checking the screen.
His brother grumbled in answer.“What the hell?It’s two in the morning.”
“Shots fired at Sam’s Tavern.Sniper across the street.”
“I’m coming,” Brock answered.The line went dead.
Christian stowed the phone and pulled the weapon from beneath his jacket.
“You’re carrying a gun?”May shouted from her crouch, voice nearly lost in the roar of the rain.
“I always carry a gun,” he said.
Wyland fumbled in his coat and came up with a soaked Ruger.“Ditto, buddy.”
May reached over and yanked it from his hand.“You’ve been drinking.”
Christian didn’t comment.He was already scanning.There was no cover—nothing but broken remains of the storage building, two half-exposed vehicles, and a town that had gone eerily still except for the downpour.Moonlight barely cut through the clouds now, just flashes in between cracks.
The rain was unrelenting.Cold.Hard.Every breath was wet air and sound.
Christian moved like the chaos didn’t touch him.He positioned himself past the front tire, calculating angles in his head.This was his element, like it or not.Water rolled down his face and soaked into his collar.He didn’t blink.Didn’t speak.Just listened.
Another shot fired.Close.Maybe hit the alley next to the tavern.
He held up a hand, flat, steady.No one moved.He'd decide when.He'd decide how.
Nobody was dying tonight.
He lifted his head just enough to see over the hood.Rain hit him sideways, cold and needle-sharp, blurring his vision and slicking his hands.The storm had worsened.The wind shoved at the vehicles, and water flowed in muddy rivers along the curb.The dark was absolute, broken only by the occasional flicker from the floodlight above Sam’s back entrance.
Another shot cracked, closer this time, and sparked against the wet asphalt.
Christian dropped back behind the Jeep.He wasn’t guessing anymore.The shooter perched on the roof of the old cineplex across the street, Moosejaw Cinemas, where Tuesday tickets cost three bucks and the popcorn tasted like lighter fluid.The last movie had probably ended around eleven and the patrons were long gone.Now the theater was just dark windows and peeling paint, but the building had the elevation and cover a shooter would want.
He shifted up again and fired three shots, fast and clean.They hit the siding just above the ticket booth awning.Right where they should.
Silence followed.
He turned toward Amka, who hadn’t moved.She sat curled against the front tire, rain soaking through her clothes.Her knees were up, her face down.“You okay?”he asked.
“No,” she said, voice muffled.Then she looked up.“Is he gone?”
“Not yet.Don’t move.”
