“Down, get down!” he shouted, his voice lost amid the sound of rapid-fire gunshots and breaking glass.
Tracie could feel the impact of the bullets as they hit him, knocking the air from his body. Yet in six strides, he had her across the yard and over the old stone wall. Heath shoved her against the far side of the wall, shielding her with his body. “Stay down,” he hissed, and she could hear him struggling to inhale.
She knew he was wounded—he had to be—but she couldn’t see where, and the cold damp of the snow beneath her began to seep through her clothing while she waited.
Silence. Even Heath’s labored breathing had eased, though his body was tense above her and he had his sidearm out, covering them, waiting. Tracie listened, not daring to move, wondering if the gunman would come after them, wondering who it could be. Her former partner’s killers? Or perhaps someone who didn’t want them to know the full extent of what Trevor had been involved in.
Something wasn’t right. Tracie Crandall eyed her new Coast Guard partner warily as they walked up the snowy path to her former partner Trevor Price’s house. She felt nervous, not just because of the flint-hard, steel-blue eyes of the man walking beside her, but because it was the first time she’d been near Trevor’s place since his death. Though she wasn’t sure how she’d react, the last thing she wanted was to show any sign of weakness with Heath Gerlach watching.
“You’ve got the warrant?” Heath asked in a low voice.
Tracie patted the breast pocket of her Coast Guard parka. “Right here.”
He nodded, his eyes flickering from her pocket to her face, and then quickly to the house and the woods surrounding it. Tracie felt as though he’d taken in every possible detail in those fleeting glances, and perhaps seen right through her tough exterior to her nervousness as well.
Heath’s features softened ever so slightly. “You’re all right coming here?”
“Of course,” Tracie swallowed back her fear. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He tipped his head dismissively, his attention already back on the house. As he turned toward the curtained living room window, his nostrils flared, reminding Tracie of the way Gunnar, her German shepherd mix, reacted when he scented danger.
With her hand raised toward the doorbell, she paused, her eyes narrowing. “Do you think—” she started to ask, but the words were ripped from her lips as Heath grabbed her, scooping her off the stoop as he leapt toward the woods.
“Down, get down!” he shouted, his voice lost amid the sound of rapid-fire gunshots and breaking glass. She could feel the impact of the bullets as they hit him, knocking the air from his body. In six strides he had her across the yard and over the old stone wall that marked the property line between Trevor’s lot and the woods beyond it.
Heath shoved her against the far side of the wall, shielding her with his body. “Stay down,” he hissed, and she could hear him struggling to inhale. “Are you hit?”
Tracie ripped the radio from her belt. “I’m fine,” she said, before hurtling a call for backup and paramedics. After hastily relaying their location and the situation, she clicked off the radio and looked back at her partner. She knew he was wounded—he had to be—but she couldn’t see where, and the cold damp of the snow beneath her began to seep through her clothing while she waited.
Silence. Even Heath’s labored breathing had eased, though his body was tense above her and he had his sidearm out, covering them, waiting. Tracie listened, not daring to move, wondering if the gunman would come after them, wondering who it could be. Trevor’s killers? Or perhaps someone who didn’t want them to know the full extent of what Trevor had been involved in.
With over six feet of solid muscle blocking her body and blocking her view, Tracie couldn’t see much, but as she eased her head to the side, she saw the growing puddle of red in the snow.
“You’re hit,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than a breath.
“Shh,” Heath cautioned her. Even in near silence, she could hear the pain in his voice.