High-Caliber Holiday. Susan Sleeman
tone but it was still soothing, almost hypnotic. If Brady were the shooter, he would gladly do what she asked.
Craig took a step back. “You’d represent me, even after this?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’ve been drinking to mask your loss. If you had a clear head, you—”
“I’d do the same thing.”
The guy’s biting tone said he was planning to pull that trigger. It made Brady want to end this now, but he wouldn’t do so without Jake’s authority.
Craig stood unmoving and staring at her. Suddenly, something caught his attention in the distance and he spun.
“No!” he shouted. “It’s a trick. I can see them—all of them—cops...coming for me. Well, they won’t find me. I’ll make my own way out.”
He jerked his finger. The gun erupted. Bullets blasted into the window, the safety glass cracking and splintering, but holding.
“Falcon, you are clear to take a shot,” Jake announced.
“Roger that, Papa Bear.” Brady’s gut cramped as he dropped his finger to the trigger. Took a deep breath. Released a long hiss of air. Prepared to squeeze. Craig—no, the target, Brady reminded himself—shifted, his eyes coming into view. Filled with rage, with pain.
Brady hesitated.
Craig started for Morgan, bending toward her. Brady had to act now or the window of opportunity would be gone. He quickly adjusted and squeezed the trigger. The bullet sliced through the air. Craig suddenly lurched forward, Morgan falling in the other direction. She hit the ground, disappearing from the scope.
Brady’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t think his shot hit Craig. Looked more like he’d fallen. But what about Morgan? His bullet couldn’t have hit her, could it? Even if it hadn’t, his moment of hesitation had given Craig a chance to move closer to Morgan and changed Brady’s angle. Maybe it had put Morgan in the path of shattering glass. He wouldn’t know until he had a chance to get inside the train car and look around.
“Move, move, move,” came Jake’s voice as he dispatched the team to secure the gunman and train.
Brady kept his scope honed on the train when all he wanted to do was race across the street and see if Morgan was alive. He couldn’t, though. He had to hold his position until Jake gave the all clear.
He waited. Watched.
The team charged the train. The doors slid open. Brady caught a look at Craig and Morgan on the floor. Blood colored Morgan’s arm. Good. If Brady had hit her, it wasn’t a body shot. She should make it.
She held up Craig’s gun. Looked like it hadn’t been her injury taking her down. Instead, she’d dropped to the floor to retrieve the gun. Archer put a knee in Craig’s back and cuffed him. Jake retrieved Craig’s gun while Cash went to Morgan and comforted her.
“Stand down, Falcon,” Jake said.
Brady wasted no time strapping his rifle over his shoulder and taking off toward the train, moving as fast as he could. His gaze went straight to Morgan. On the floor, sitting up and alert, she’d clamped a hand over her injured arm. Blood had oozed through her fingers. Fresh. Red. But no longer increasing.
Brady sighed out his relief. Guilt flooded in. His hesitation had likely caused her injury. Still, it could have been far worse. He could have severely injured her.
Thank You, God, for protecting her, he thought and joined Cash who was standing over her and calling on his radio for Darcie.
“Hang tight,” Cash said to Morgan. “Our medic is on the way.”
“Seems like the bleeding has stopped,” Morgan said, not sounding as fearful as Brady expected.
Sure, lingering fear darkened her eyes, but he liked the strength he saw in her. She was something else. Most women would be fainting or falling apart in this situation, but Morgan remained strong.
Brady’s kind of woman. Not clingy. Not needy. Her own person, standing strong. Until he shot her. Or his bullet sent glass flying into her arm.
Right. She’s hurt because of me. He should apologize for the injury, but to do so, he’d have to admit he’d frozen, and his hesitation could very well have caused her injury.
He’d have to find a way to deal with that. Because one thing he knew for certain, a sniper who froze wasn’t good for anyone, least of all the First Response Squad. The only way to combat that was to get over what was causing it or leave the team.
* * *
Icy-cold air laden with flurrying snow rushed into the train car as Morgan reached for a pole to get to her feet. It hit her then. She’d been shot. Shot! It was only a superficial wound, but even so, a bullet had grazed her arm.
A bullet. An honest-to-goodness bullet.
The night came flashing back like a fast-forwarded video. The pictures were bright, but blurred. The sounds frantic. Craig coming for her, wanting to kill her, his bullets piercing the glass, sending spidery cracks racing through it. Her decision to put the active shooter training into practice. To fight. When Craig no longer had his gun planted against her head, she’d shot out her foot and tripped him. It was risky, but she’d had no choice. He was going to kill her. Right there in the train if she did nothing.
He’d crashed to the floor. The gun skittered away. She’d started to go after it when another gun blast sounded from a distance. The zip of a bullet was followed by the slice in her arm, pain radiating up. But she’d kept her cool and located the gun before Craig could get to his feet.
She shuddered and forced her thoughts to the present. The deputy who’d called for a medic was hauling Craig off in handcuffs. His face was peppered with cuts from the glass. His shoulder was bloody, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He came to a stop next to Morgan and glared at her. “Don’t think this is the last of this. I’ll make you pay.”
“Pretty hard to do from prison,” the deputy said.
Craig sneered at her. “I’ll find a way.”
“Come on, Shaw.” The deputy jerked Craig’s cuffs and prodded him off the train.
With Craig gone, she was suddenly aware of another deputy who’d arrived later than the others staring down at her. He stood tall and commanding as if protecting her from an unseen foe.
Unseen foe. Ha! A thought she’d never expected to have.
It was all so surreal, and she couldn’t handle much more. She needed to give her statement and get out of there before she fell apart. First, she had to get off the floor, out of the glass and away from the blood.
She pulled up on the pole. Her knees buckled and the blood drained from her head. She wobbled.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” the deputy asked. The car seemed to be spinning, and it was all she could do to find a seat before hitting the floor.
“Head between your knees or you’re going to keel over.” He stepped forward and a strong hand pushed her head down, then held it in place.
A whooshing noise rushed through Morgan’s ears, and she blinked hard to try to clear the dizziness. She was aware of movement around her and the man’s foot as he tapped on the metal floor, as if anxious to leave. Her vision was starting to clear, and she tried to sit up.
“Not yet,” he said, obviously used to getting his way.
She waited a few more moments. “I’m good to sit up.”
“You’re sure you won’t faint on me?” His tone had lightened. “’Cause superhero code says a damsel in distress can only be rescued once a day.” He grinned.
“No worries. I don’t need rescuing, by you or anyone else,” she replied more vehemently than