The shooter seemed to have stopped, but Zack still held her trembling body against him as he lightly stroked her hair.
“Zack?” she whispered in a tight voice.
He looked down at her. “What?”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you. That won’t ever happen again. I’ll make sure my gun—”
“Shh...” He placed his finger to her lips. “It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.”
“But I’m an FBI—”
“Not right now, you’re not. You’re a victim, just like me.”
Tears clung to her eyelashes. “I don’t want to be a victim. Not any longer.”
He sat taller as her words sank in. “You’re right. I don’t want to be a victim any longer, either. From now on, let’s do the exact opposite.”
A small smile tugged on one side of her adorable mouth. “How do you suggest we do that?”
“I don’t know, but when I figure it out, then we’ll start.”
She laughed fully now and leaned against him. “Right now my brain isn’t working, but I did take some psychology classes in college. I’ll dig through the cobwebs of my mind and remember what I’d learned.”
He kissed her forehead. “You’re so funny, Whitney.” His knuckles under her chin raised her face to look at him. “But we’ll do it together. All right?”
She nodded. “Yes. Together.”
He caressed her chin, wondering if he should kiss her now. But yet, they still might be in danger. Kissing her would be distracting, and until the gunman was caught, both he and Whitney needed a clear head.
From the distance, Zack heard their names being called. It was Joe. Relief filled Zack and he grasped Whitney’s hand and they stood. Cautiously, they stepped out of their hiding spot.
When Joe came into view, Whitney broke away from Zack and ran to the older man. The two hugged, but worry was etched on Joe’s face. Zack stepped closer, not wanting to interrupt the tender moment.
Three other men stood behind Joe. Zack recalled being introduced to them yesterday. The tall thin man with receding hairline was Luke. The middle-aged man with a protruding gut was Billy. And the youngest out of the three who looked to be in his mid-twenties, was Wallace. Joe had nicknamed the guy Wall. Each man held a rifle and scoped out the yard.
“Did you see anyone?” Whitney asked Joe as she stepped away.
“No, honey. We saw some duck hunters way out toward Casco Bay, but they wouldn’t shoot inland.”
“What about deer hunters?” Zack asked, folding his arms across his chest. He wasn’t convinced that they were out of danger, yet.
“There shouldn’t be any.” Joe removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Hunting season doesn’t start until the end of October. Besides, we never get hunters on this property.”
Zack met Whitney’s panicked gaze. His gut churned. If only he knew how to stop feeling like the victim. Would it be wise to become the hunter instead of the hunted? The problem with that analogy was that he wouldn’t know where to start looking for the hitman.
He scratched his whiskery chin that was filling quite nicely into a beard. Now the question was, had the hitman been following them all this time? If not, how would he know to come to Greenston, Maine?
“Why don’t you two go in the house?” Joe motioned his head toward Whitney. “The boys and I will continue to look around the property.”
“Good idea.” Zack took Whitney’s hand, pulling her close.
“Just stay away from windows.” Joe nodded.
Keeping Whitney close, Zack rushed them inside the house. Once the door was closed, she released a ragged sigh and looked into his eyes.
“Oh, Zack. I’m such a failure as an FBI agent.”
“No, you’re not.”
