The Guardian's Mission. Shirlee McCoy
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time you attempt an escape, you might want to keep the volume down.”
“There isn’t going to be a next time, because if I live through this one I’m never leaving my house again.” Her teeth chattered on the last word, her face devoid of color.
“You’re going to be fine, Sunshine.” He’d barely gotten the words out when the world exploded. Gunfire. Shouts. White-hot pain sliced through his upper arm, warm blood seeping down his bicep. Dark figures swarmed from the trees, surrounding them as Martha screamed.
“Freeze! Police! Hands on your head. Down on the ground. Down! Down! Do it now.”
Tristan did as he was commanded, pulling Martha with him. Cold, wet earth seeping through his clothes. It was over. Martha was alive. He was alive. God had gotten them both through. The rest was gravy.
An officer frisked him, cuffed him and pulled him to his feet, calling in a request for hospital transport as he eyed the blood seeping down Tristan’s arm. Tristan barely heard. He was looking around, searching for something he didn’t see. Someone he didn’t see. Martha stood a few feet away surrounded by uniformed men and women. Her baseball cap gone, her hair plastered against her pale face, mud streaking her cheeks. She must have sensed his gaze, because she met his eyes, tried to smile, but failed.
Tristan wasn’t smiling, either.
Something was wrong. Really wrong.
No way had law enforcement started the gunfight. Someone else had pulled a weapon, and Tristan was certain he knew who that someone was. Gordon Johnson had no qualms about shooting a man in the back. No doubt he’d been intent on doing just that. And no doubt he would have been successful if his aim hadn’t been ruined by…what? A gunshot wound?
Tristan turned to the police officer. “Who started the gunfight? Your men? Did they shoot someone?”
“We’re the ones asking the questions here.”
The officer shoved Tristan forward, apparently not knowing Tristan was one of the good guys and not caring that blood was seeping down his arm, or that the bone was most likely broken.
Tristan couldn’t say he blamed the guy. The guns being auctioned today were the latest in advanced armor-busting weaponry. The kind that killed cops.
“Look, if the guy who shot me isn’t in custody, you’d better make sure you find him. He’s Buddy’s right-hand man. If he escapes, there’s going to be trouble.”
The officer stopped walking and turned to Tristan, something flashing in his eyes. Maybe concern. Maybe recognition of Tristan’s humanity. Whatever it was, he shrugged. “The guy was coming around the trailer with his gun drawn as we were moving in. Must have seen something that spooked him because he jumped back behind it just as he fired.”
“And he’s not in custody?”
“Couldn’t tell you. Seems to me, though, that you should be a little bit more concerned about yourself and less concerned about your buddy.”
“He’s not my buddy.” Tristan couldn’t say more. Not here. Maintaining cover until he was brought away in handcuffs was part of his job. If the wrong person saw him being chummy with cops, he’d have a difficult time working undercover again.
“Right.” The officer said something to one of the other uniforms, and walked away.
Tristan tried to relax. Tried to tell himself that he’d accomplished his goal—Martha was safe.
He didn’t believe it. Not if Johnson had escaped. The man didn’t believe in leaving loose ends, and Martha was definitely that.
He grimaced at the thought, blood seeping in warm rivulets into his palm, his head swimming as the officer he’d been left with marched him toward the other handcuffed felons in the center of the clearing.
Officers and agents milled around, relaxed. Smiling. Box after box of weapons were being numbered and photographed. Thousands of dollars’ worth of death confiscated. Hundreds of lives saved. The raid had been a success. A huge one.
Tristan should be happy. He wasn’t.
It was over, but not over.
The knowledge edged out pain and frustration, his worry throbbing hotly as he was escorted to an ATV and taken to the main road.
It was over. Marti told herself that again and again as she sat in a small room at the Lynchburg Police Department, visions of cold-eyed killers and blood filling her head. Her hands trembled as she lifted the cup of coffee a female officer had brought in forty minutes ago. Forty minutes. It seemed like hours.
She stood, testing her still-shaky legs as she moved to the door. They held her weight. Barely. Since the moment she’d turned and seen blood seeping from Sky’s upper arm, her body seemed to have a mind of its own, her muscles loose, her limbs ungainly. Shaky, unsure, out of sync with her brain. It was like walking in a dream or a nightmare. Only she wasn’t asleep.
A soft knock sounded at the door and Martha stepped back as a stocky, dark-haired man strode into the room, his expression neutral. “Ms. Gabler? I’m Officer Miller. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”
“It’s okay.”
“Can I get you something else to drink? A soda? Water?”
“No. Thanks. I’d just like to go home.”
“We’ll let you go soon. Right now, I need you to tell me what happened this afternoon.”
Tell him what happened? Martha wasn’t even sure she knew what had happened. One minute she’d been stepping into her dad’s hunting cabin, the next she’d been running. Guns going off, men shouting. Total chaos. Sky bleeding. She shuddered, taking a seat again. “I just wanted to spend a weekend in the mountains.”
She told the rest as quickly as she could, filling in as many details as she remembered until her words ran out and she had nothing more to say. “That’s it.”
“Great.” Officer Miller looked up from the notebook he was scribbling in. “I think that’s all I need. Let me just check on a few more things and we’ll get you out of here.”
“Before you go, I was wondering, is Sky okay?”
“Sky?”
“He was shot in the arm.”
“Sky. Right. He should be fine.”
“Should be fine? How bad was his injury?”
“As far as I know, it’s not life threatening.”
“But—”
“Ma’am, you’ve had a long day. I’m sure you’re anxious to get home. Give me a few minutes and I’ll make sure that happens.” He cut her off, closing the notebook and leaving the room, firmly ending the conversation.
Which should have been fine with Martha.
After all, he’d said Sky’s injuries weren’t life threatening. She didn’t need any more information than that. As long as he hadn’t died trying to save her, she should be willing to let the matter drop.
She wasn’t. She wanted to know more. Was Sky in jail? Was he going to be charged with a felony?
How had a guy who’d willingly risked his life for a stranger ended up a criminal? It took uncommon courage to step between a bullet and another person. It took valor. Heroism. It took the kind of grit most people didn’t have.
Sky had it, yet he’d been in the mountains to buy illegal weapons. That’s what Martha had been told by police, and she’d seen the evidence of those weapons as officers led her to waiting vehicles. Still, the gunrunning militia member didn’t seem to mesh with the courageous hero, and the dichotomy bothered Martha.
She shook her head, forcing her mind away from Sky Davis. Hero or not, he’d committed a crime. He was going to pay for it, and she