Chapter 21 BREE

Chapter 21

brEE

Gunshot!

Whipping her gun from its holster, Bree dived off the porch, crawled two feet, and crouched between the downed agent and the direction where the bullet seemed to have come from. Bree turned to face the hidden shooter, using the porch steps for cover, leveling her weapon over the concrete stoop. Scanning the opposite side of the street, she saw no movement, no glint of sunlight metal, no shooter.

Without lowering her gaze, she nudged Kilpatrick's foot with a boot. "Are you alive?"

Prone, face down on the ground, Kilpatrick wheezed out a response halfway between "Oof" and "Yes." Her next inhalation sounded rough.

She's still breathing.

But Kilpatrick's head and shoulders were potentially exposed. Bree turned, grabbed the agent's feet, and dragged her farther behind the steps. She yelled into her lapel mic, "Shots fired. Officer down." She barked out the address. "Requesting backup and an ambulance."

Dispatch responded, but another gunshot commanded Bree's attention. She ducked. The bullet struck the porch railing. Bits of wood flew, and a hot sting hit the side of her neck.

Just debris.

But still a solid reminder of their vulnerable position. Images of the kids and Matt flashed in her mind before she banished them. As much as she loved them, she couldn't afford any distraction. She breathed. Forcing her lungs to expand and deflate with almost painful deliberation, warding off the tunnel vision that could result from the unchecked rush of adrenaline.

She touched her radio mic again. "We're pinned down next to the front steps and under fire!" Dropping her hand, Bree peered over the stoop, aiming her weapon at the home across the street, the white bungalow where curtains had moved when they'd arrived. The curtains shifted now, but Bree saw only a face, no gun barrel.

Where is the shooter?

They'd both been focused on potential threats coming from behind the door. Bree had been fired on from inside a home in a very similar circumstance. Neither had expected a shot to originate from behind them. She scanned the windows and roofline but saw nothing.

A third gunshot rang out. Bree ducked again as the bullet pinged the dirt just beyond the porch steps. Her heart hammered. Her breaths came short and fast. "Kilpatrick, are you bleeding?"

"Don't know." The agent barely choked out the reply.

Bree glanced over her shoulder. The agent hadn't moved, but Bree didn't see any blood. She could either defend them or provide first aid.

Deciding that a second bullet wouldn't improve the agent's health, Bree turned her attention to the houses that flanked the bungalow. A beat-up old pickup was parked in the driveway of a dark ranch-style house. To the right, a two-story brick home looked vacant. Overgrown weeds crawled up three feet of the brick sides. Several windows were broken. Something moved behind the broken glass of an upstairs window. Bree took aim and waited. A shadow appeared in the window, and light glinted off the barrel of a gun. Another shot rang out. Ignoring the ping of the bullet hitting a concrete step, Bree squeezed the trigger, returning fire.

The shooter yanked the weapon back into the house.

That's right, asshole. I'm shooting back.

Bree pulled the trigger again. She wanted him to know they weren't completely helpless. Movement behind the broken glass ceased. Had he moved? Would he fire again from a different direction? They would be sitting ducks if he moved to the other side of the steps they were hiding behind.

She updated dispatch with the potential location of the shooter. She didn't want her deputies shot as they drove up.

Next to her, Kilpatrick shifted on the ground. In her peripheral vision, Bree saw her move her arms and legs, as if checking to make sure they still worked. Then the agent rolled onto her side, exhaling painfully with the effort, and vomited into a patch of weeds. The enchiladas in Bree's stomach did a slow, sour roll.

The worry that the agent could have internal injuries or heavy bleeding made Bree turn away from the steps. She put a knee to the ground and bent over the agent. She gave Kilpatrick's limbs and head a quick scan. No visible blood. "Where were you hit?"

Bree pivoted her head and checked the brick house again. No movement. No shadow. No glint of light on metal. She scanned the roofline and the approach to the porch they were hiding behind. When she didn't see anyone, she turned back to the agent.

"My back." Kilpatrick wriggled, turning her head to attempt to look over her own shoulder. Every movement elicited a grimace, but her breathing no longer rattled like a subway train.

"I've got you." Bree ran a hand across the back of the vest. She felt a hole in the stiff material on the back of the agent's ribs. "Right here."

The vest should have done its job. But with them still under fire, Bree didn't want to remove it to check. She patted the agent's shirt at the bottom of the vest. If there was a wound underneath the vest, the shirt should be saturated. "I don't feel any blood."

Kilpatrick nodded, her face strained. Even if the bullet hadn't pierced the vest, the shot would have hurt. Kilpatrick would have a massive bruise and potentially some broken ribs. Both of which were better than a big hole.

Satisfied the agent's death likely wasn't imminent, Bree turned back to the shooter. The street was empty and still. People in this neighborhood knew to duck and cover when gunshots rang out. The only sound she could hear was the barking of the dogs down the street.

Bree's skin itched, and the hairs on the back of her neck waved in alarm. Was the killer watching them? Had he moved to a new location? Maybe one on this side of the concrete steps, where he'd have a better shot at them?

She put her back to the concrete and widened the area she was covering. Seconds ticked by. Sweat dripped down Bree's back. The tank top she wore under her body armor was soaked through. Her gaze returned to the brick house. Nothing. Behind her, Kilpatrick coughed and grunted in pain, but she managed to wriggle closer to the base of the steps.

"See him?" Kilpatrick asked in a tight voice.

"No. I think he moved." Or left. He had to know the police would be coming. She breathed.

The sound of approaching sirens could have been a chorus of angels. Nothing had ever sounded sweeter. If he hadn't fled, he surely would now.

Kilpatrick struggled to a sitting position and pulled the Velcro strap of her vest free. She shifted the heavy material and felt her back. "It didn't go through."

"Still going to leave a mark."

"I'll take it." Kilpatrick dropped her hand and leaned back against the steps. "Thanks again for the vest."

"You're very welcome."

Two Scarlet Falls PD units screeched to a halt in front of the brick house. A Randolph County Sheriff's vehicle turned the corner. The air was filled with the overlapping wails of sirens.

Kilpatrick squinted at her. "You're bleeding." She pointed to the side of her neck.

Bree felt the corresponding spot on her own body and found a big wooden splinter lodged under her skin. "I'll take it." Her hand came away sticky with blood. She wiped it on her pants, then met the FBI agent's troubled gaze. "Chance encounter or intentional ambush?"

"Intentional." Kilpatrick clutched her side. "We've pushed someone's buttons."