Chapter Twenty-Eight

Emmet moved into position behind the car door, lined up his sights, and took the shot.

Pop!

McVoy whirled around and staggered back, then lurched behind a rusted camper van.

“Is he hit?” asked the FBI agent in the radio hooked to Emmet’s ear.

“I don’t know,” Emmet responded.

“FBI!” someone yelled from the cover of a concrete barricade. “Drop your weapon!”

McVoy darted from the camper van to a yellow backhoe. He wore a black shirt and jeans, but no visible body armor.

“Behind the backhoe!” Emmet yelled.

A bullet pinged off the metal by Emmet’s head, and he ducked down behind the car door.

“Shit.” He glanced over his shoulder at Owen. “That was fucking close.”

“Cover me,” Owen said.

“Where are you going?”

“The smashed Camaro just over there. Three... two... one—”

Owen sprinted for the car and dove behind the rusted-out vehicle as the bullet ricocheted off it.

Okay, this guy was officially crazy. He was outnumbered six to one, and still he wanted to engage in a firefight. This was starting to feel like suicide by cop.

Adrenaline pumped through Emmet’s veins as he rested his arms on the door and peered over it, lining up his sights again. Another blur of movement. McVoy darted behind a stack of tractor tires.

“Where is he?” asked one of the feds over the radio.

“Behind the tires,” Emmet replied.

Seconds ticked by. Sweat seeped into Emmet’s eyes as he watched the scene. Driscoll crept toward the tire tower, weapon clutched and ready. Owen spotted him and gave him the all clear. Driscoll lunged around the tires.

No sound, nothing.

“Where’d he go?” Raddick asked over the radio.

An engine fired to life. Emmet whirled around just in time to see a silver car burst from behind a rusted shipping container. He was getting away!

“In the car, in the car!” voices yelled over the radio.

Emmet jumped out from behind the door. He lunged in front of the car and took aim.

Pop!

The windshield cracked. The car swerved. Emmet leaped out of the way as the car barreled toward him, then careened around a curve.

“Shit!”

He ran after it and heard a deafening shriek of metal.

The airbag smacked her, and Nicole dropped her head back, stunned.

She shook off the daze. A blur of movement caught her eye—McVoy stumbling away from the silver car, clutching his shoulder.

Nicole grabbed her weapon from the passenger seat as gunfire erupted outside. She pushed the door open.

Pop!

Pop! Pop!

Bullets seemed to be flying in all directions. McVoy crumpled to the ground, clutching his knee now. Emmet was on him almost instantly. And then Owen and Adam.

Nicole watched in shock as they wrestled the man onto his stomach and slapped cuffs on him. Then the FBI agents were there, everyone crowded around trying to help get the kicking man under control.

Nicole grabbed her crutches. She struggled with the airbag, slapping it out of her way so she could get the crutches positioned and haul herself from the car. She hurried over to the heap of bodies.

McVoy was on his stomach in the dirt, cursing and bleeding. Agent Raddick crouched beside him as everyone else got to their feet.

She looked at Emmet. “He’s disarmed?”

“Yeah.” Emmet’s chest heaved, and his eyes looked wild with panic as he glanced from the crashed police car to her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped closer. “You sure?”

“I’m okay.”

A steady whump-whump filled the sky, and Nicole looked up to see a police helicopter nearing the salvage yard.

“There’s our backup,” Owen said. “Just in time.”

The helicopter swooped low, kicking up dust, and Nicole turned away and shielded her eyes from the grit.

Emmet moved away from the crowd. Nicole’s heart lurched as he stumbled toward a pile of tires.

“Emmet?”

He leaned against the tires, and she noticed the blood dripping from his fingertips.

“Emmet?” She rushed over.

“Damn, Nicole.” He closed his eyes. “He got me.”