Twisted Truth (Rogue Justice Novella Book 1) Page 9

  Seth and Bruce pulled Gabe down the hall to the kitchen. Blood covered his face like a gory mask. The children huddled on the floor. Liam began to cry when he saw Gabe. Brianna gasped.

  Carly fell to her knees beside Gabe.

  “It looks worse than it is,” she said.

  Please, please let that be true.

  “She’s right,” Gabe said, probing the side of his head with his fingers. “I think the bullet just grazed me.”

  Despite his brave words and cool front, Gabe’s face was tight with pain and shock, and his eyes wouldn’t focus.

  Carly grabbed a few clean dish towels and wet one at the sink. Then she mopped Gabe’s face and head. Fresh blood welled in the long furrow along the side of his head.

  “Let me get the first aid kit. Hold this.” She covered the wound with a folded towel and placed his hand on top of it. Staying low, she went to the pantry.

  “Do you still need the light in here?” Seth peered into the room.

  “Yes. A few more minutes.” Kit in hand, Carly retuned to Gabe’s side. She stacked gauze pads on the injury and wound an Ace bandage around his head, stretching the fabric to create enough pressure to hopefully stop the bleeding.

  “How is he?” Seth asked.

  “It looks like a graze, but it’s bleeding heavily.” Carly taped the bandage in place. She propped a throw pillow from the sofa behind Gabe’s shoulders.

  Gabe winced. “Head wounds bleed a lot.”

  Her gaze landed on a small puddle of blood, and she remembered seeing him drag his leg. “Wait! You were hit in the leg too.”

  “I don’t know.” Gabe sounded confused.

  His body armor covered much of his torso. Carly felt along his legs. Her hand came away from his thigh wet with blood. She used the scissors in the first aid kit to cut his uniform pants. A bullet had passed through his leg midthigh. Blood flowed in a steady stream onto the floor. How could he not have known? Shock?

  She folded a towel and applied pressure to the wound.

  A grim-faced Seth brought a blanket, and Carly spread it over Gabe.

  “I’ll be fine,” Gabe said. But his face was pale as milk.

  Carly squeezed his hand. His fingers were cold, his grip weak.

  She wrapped a bandage around his leg. As soon as she finished, Seth turned out the light. He’d turned on the exterior floodlights as well, making it as difficult as possible for anyone in the yard to see into the house.

  “Hold still.” Carly turned to the children. They huddled together on the floor. Brianna still had her arms wrapped around Liam. She was shaking, but Liam had gone still.

  “Everything is going to be okay.” Carly hugged them both. “You stay right here.”

  Bruce peered around the window frame. He held his gun in one hand and pressed his cell phone to his ear with the other.

  “We need an ambulance and backup. At least one shooter on the premises.” He gave the police dispatcher the details, then made another call. Lowering the phone, he said, “I couldn’t get through to Zane or Stevie. Sheila will continue to call them, but they were called out to a rescue. The sheriff’s department and an ambulance are on the way, but the ETA is at least forty-five minutes, maybe longer.”

  “So we have to hold out for forty-five minutes.” Carly scanned the expanse of glass at the back of the house. There were no blinds on the windows. Patsy had never wanted to obscure the view. Out in the country, they had no neighbors, no worries about anyone seeing inside, no need for privacy.

  Until now.

  The bright, sunny kitchen now felt like a fishbowl. And someone was shooting fish in the bowl instead of a barrel.

  Carly checked on Gabe again. Blood was seeping through the bandage already, and his face had grown paler. The pressure bandage wasn’t working. With no other options, she used her belt to fashion a makeshift tourniquet just above the wound. His body jerked as she tightened it. “I’m sorry.” She touched his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

  She slipped into the hallway. “Seth?”

  “He’s in the study,” her mother said in a soft voice from her position at the front door. She spoke without taking her gaze off the narrow window next to the door. The rifle rested across the insides of her forearms.

  Adrenaline rushed through Carly’s veins. In the near silent house, her pulse echoed in her ears, her heart beat hummingbird-fast. She inhaled a deep breath and held it for the count of ten. She had no time for dizziness or other weakness. She could fall apart later, after her family was safe.

  Stopping behind her mother, she gazed over Patsy’s shoulder. The driveway, road, and the group of trees at the front edge of the property looked quiet, but the shooter was out there.

  Somewhere.

  Had he moved? Was he watching the house, planning his next move?

  Seth emerged from the study, carrying a shotgun. He broke the action and inserted two shells, then he handed Patsy a box of bullets. She put it in her jacket pocket.

  “Where are you going?” Carly grabbed his arm, fear gripping her heart.

  Seth’s eyes narrowed—the anger that shone from them was pure, cold rage. “I’m going hunting.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Seth was not a patient man. He handed his wife the shotgun. The 12-gauge had more stopping power than her handgun.

  He wanted—needed—to take action. To hunt down anyone who threatened his family. He would not sit and wait for whoever was outside in the dark to come after them. Forty-five minutes was too long. Long enough for the shooter to reposition himself with a clear view of the back of the house. Or to pick off the ambulance crew as it arrived . . .

  The options were endless.

  “You don’t know how many of them are out there,” Carly said in a grim voice.

  “I know.” The Dodge brothers, Wade Pierce, Terry Reece, Shawn Collins. Any of them could be outside.

  There was always the possibility that they were all working together . . .

  “Seth?” Gabe called from the kitchen.

  Seth went to the doorway. Gabe was struggling to remove his uniform shirt. Blood soaked the bandage on his head, and his movements had spurred more bleeding from his leg wound.

  “Gabe, you have to hold still,” Carly said. “The ambulance is still at least a half hour away.”

  But Gabe continued to squirm. “Take my vest.”

  Seth’s body armor was in the trunk of his car.

  “Good thinking.” Carly switched gears and helped Gabe strip down to his T-shirt. Then she added another layer to each of his bandages. “No more moving.”

  Gabe nodded, slumping to the floor.

  Carly wrapped another layer of rolled gauze around his leg.

  Then Seth donned Gabe’s vest and tightened the Velcro straps. His finger stopped on a dimple in the Kevlar over his ribs.

  A bullet.

  Gabe had actually been shot three times. His vest had saved his life.

  Seth took a dark jacket from the closet and tugged a black knit cap over his blond hair. He checked the load on his Glock, then added a knife in a sheath to his belt.

  Just in case things got personal.

  “Your mom has the front door,” Seth said to Carly.

  Seth’s mother-in-law was the kindest woman alive, unless you threatened her family. Then she’d put a bullet in your ass faster than you could blink. “Bruce is covering the back. You cover Gabe and the kids in case someone breaches the perimeter?”

  Carly nodded. “I love you.”

  “Love you more.” Seth pressed a quick kiss to her lips.

  He meant each word. He would kill—or die—for her in a heartbeat.

  Seth pointed at Bruce. “Stay here and protect them. We don’t know how many men are out there, so hold your position no matter what.”

  Bruce nodded grimly.

  Seth had turned on all the outside lights except the one over the side door. He slipped out into the darkness. The shooter had used the branches of the trees by
the road like a deer blind, but he’d had plenty of time to move to a new location.

  Sticking to the shadows, Seth ran across the grass. The downpour soaked his clothes and hat in a few seconds, but the limited visibility would also provide him with some cover.

  Seth circled the yard, approaching the trees from the back side. Water splashed under his feet, but the storm covered any sound of his footsteps. He crept through the trees. There were only a half dozen of them, all mature oaks, and their branches were all empty. The shooter had moved.

  He spied scrapes in the bark of a tree. At the base of it, two footprints in the mud pointed toward the barn. Was he going to create a diversion? A barn fire would draw at least some of them out of the house. Seth jogged toward the big building. When he reached its shadow, he stayed close to the barn and crept toward the entrance.

  The door had been rolled open about twelve inches.

  Someone was inside.

  Seth peered through the opening. A figure was spreading a bale of straw in the aisle. Animals moved restlessly in their stalls, sensing the stranger. Seth’s horse kicked at his door and let out a shrill whinny. Another door shook from an impact.

  The figure stepped back and struck a match. The small flame glowed in the dark barn.

  “Stop!” Seth raised his handgun.

  The figure turned to face him. Shawn Collins met his gaze, dropped the match, and broke for the exit.

  Cursing, Seth dove forward. Even as he knew he was wasting time, he stomped out the flames already sparking in the dry straw. He couldn’t let the animals burn. He took heart that Bruce and Patsy and Carly were all armed at the house. If Shawn thought any of them would be easy prey, he was mistaken.

  Seth kicked dirt on top of smoldering flames, then ran for the exit.

  If Shawn was headed for the house, he had a decent head start.

  He ran outside. Shawn was a dark shadow sprinting across the lawn. Seth raced after him. A three-shot burst of gunfire pinged. Bullets hit the wet grass near Seth’s feet. He switched to a zigzag pattern, his boots slipping in the water.

  Someone else was out here.

  Terry?

  Up ahead, through the driving rain, he could see Shawn approaching the house. Seth turned on the speed. More shots rang out, but the visibility, wind, and rain were his friends. Bullets kicked up water and dirt around him. He kept his line erratic and gained on Shawn anyway. By the time they’d reached the halfway point across the small meadow, Seth was nearly on top of him.

  He dove forward, catching Shawn in a flying tackle. Shawn twisted his body to fall on his hip. They crashed to the ground, sliding in the mud. As their forward momentum stopped, they rolled. Shawn landed on top of Seth. Straddling Seth’s chest, Shawn reached for his calf, and light gleamed on the blade of a knife.

  Seth hooked Shawn’s ankle with his foot and used both hands to grab the wrist holding the knife. Seth bucked, throwing Shawn’s weight forward. Then Seth bridged, reversing their positions. But Shawn was no amateur. Before Seth settled his weight, he scrambled out from under him.

  Brandishing the knife, Shawn circled.

  Seth staggered to his feet and wiped the rain from his eyes.

  “Trust me,” Shawn yelled over the roaring wind and lashing rain. “You don’t want to take me on in a knife fight.”

  “No. I don’t.” Seth pulled his Glock and shot Shawn twice in the chest.

  Seth was not fucking around with his family in danger. Shawn had had his chance to surrender in the barn, and he’d blown it.

  Shawn fell to his knees, his face a blend of resignation and surprise. The knife dropped to the grass. Seth stepped forward, keeping his gun aimed on Shawn, and kicked the weapon away.

  But he needn’t have worried. Shawn face-planted, and when Seth used his foot to roll him onto his back, he was dead.

  One down.

  Seth turned, his gaze seeking the shooter through the rain. A figure stood in front of the barn. The figure lifted the rifle to his shoulder. Seth hit the ground and waited for the shot.

  An irritated bleat carried through the rain. Prince Eric burst from the barn door and rammed the shooter behind the knees. The man’s feet flew into the air, he dropped his rifle, and landed on his ass in the mud.

  Seth sprinted toward him.

  The man scrambled for his weapon, but the goat charged again, ducking his head and slamming his horns into the man’s chest. The man flipped onto his hands and knees and crawled toward the rifle. Grabbing it, he spun on his knees and swung the barrel toward the goat. Before he could bring the weapon around, Prince Eric dashed away into the rain.

  “Police! Drop the rifle!” Seth pointed his Glock at him.

  The man froze and turned to face him. Terry Reece.

  “I thought you corporate types preferred to keep your hands clean,” Seth said.

  Terry’s eyes flickered. His fingers on the rifle moved.

  “Don’t do it.” Seth warned. “Shawn’s dead. If you move that weapon, you’re next.”

  Terry lowered the rifle to the mud. On his knees, he raised his hands into the air.

  “Lace your fingers behind you head and scoot backward,” Seth commanded, moving closer.

  Terry obeyed.

  “You can stop!” Seth moved the rifle farther away with his foot. “Now don’t move.”

  Is it over?

  Seth reached for his handcuffs. Before he could take them from his belt, Prince Eric charged out of the rain, rammed Terry in the back, and knocked him onto his face in the mud.

  Terry lifted his head and spit. “Fucking goat.”

  “He gets pissed when someone tries to set his barn on fire.” Seth holstered his weapon and cuffed Terry’s hands behind his back. He hauled the mud-covered man to his feet.

  Prince Eric kicked his heels up and ran in a circle around the barnyard.

  Seth searched Terry’s pockets and relieved him of a handgun and a thick military-style knife. Then he marched Terry to the back of the house.

  Bruce opened the back door and yelled over the rain. “Everything all right, Seth?”

  “Yes,” Seth answered, then he tugged Terry onto the deck. “Sit.”

  “You’re not going to leave me out here in the storm?” Terry complained.

  Seth opened the cuffs, brought Terry’s hands behind the deck post, and recuffed him at an awkward angle. Terry wasn’t going anywhere. “I’m sure as hell not bringing you into my house.”

  His family was safe, but worry kicked aside Seth’s relief.

  He went to the back door. “How’s Gabe?”

  He didn’t need an answer. Carly was kneeling at the fallen officer’s side, her face streaked with tears, her clothes soaked with blood.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I can’t get the bleeding to stop.” Carly tightened the bandage on Gabe’s leg. Blood covered her hands and smeared her clothes, the smell and slickness of it bringing another scene, and a dead child, into her mind.

  She couldn’t let Gabe die.

  Seth hurried through the back door. “Where is the ambulance?”

  “Another road is underwater,” Bruce said. “The ambulance is making a detour. It’s going to take them a while to get here.”

  “Life flight?” Seth asked, moving across the kitchen.

  Bruce shook his head. “The helicopter can’t fly in this storm.”

  Carly glanced in the open first aid kit next to her. “I’m running out of gauze.”

  “Bruce, lock the prisoner in the back of Gabe’s patrol car and get the first aid kit from the trunk.” Seth peered over her shoulder.

  She folded yet another towel, placed it on the wound, and applied more pressure. But the blood wouldn’t stop. “He needs a doctor.”

  Her mother peered into the kitchen from the den, where she had taken the children. “Doc Simpson isn’t in town, but Dean is on his way.”

  Seth put two fingers on Gabe’s neck. “Can you hear me?”

  Gabe’s eyes opened fo
r a few seconds, then drifted shut again. He mumbled something.

  “Hang on, buddy,” Seth said. “I have to check the rest of the property. I don’t think there’s anyone else out there, but I want to double-check.”

  He went out the back door.

  Bruce brought the fully stocked first aid kit in and opened it next to Carly’s knee. Her arms and back ached from leaning on Gabe’s leg.

  The next five minutes passed too slowly. Finally, the front door opened. Dean walked into the kitchen carrying a black medical bag. He dropped to his knees beside Carly, and rummaged in his bag for a pair of surgical gloves.

  Carly moved aside, relieved.

  “Do we have an ETA on the ambulance?” Dean asked as he started an IV.

  “I just called them. They’re still thirty minutes away,” Bruce said. “I thought you were a psychiatrist?”

  “I am.” Dean hung the bag of fluids from the back of a kitchen chair. “I once had a patient show up to my office after trying to commit suicide. I keep emergency supplies on hand. Besides, I’ve learned that I’m the only medical doctor within twenty miles.”

  “More like thirty or forty,” Bruce said.

  “This should help.” Dean straightened the IV line, then nudged Carly. “Why don’t you let me take over? I did a rotation in a trauma center in med school.”

  Carly stumbled to her feet and backed away. She leaned on the kitchen counter as Dean assessed the wound, adjusted the tourniquet, and applied additional bandages. He might be a psychiatrist, but he knew what he was doing.

  Now that the acute danger had passed, Carly’s adrenaline plummeted and exhaustion slid over her like an ice pack. Shivering, she watched Gabe breathe until the ambulance arrived.

  Once he was loaded onto the gurney and wheeled out, Dean stood and stripped off his gloves. He turned to Carly, a concerned frown bringing his brows together. Tossing the gloves into the garbage can, he crossed the tile to stand in front of Carly. “Let’s get your hands washed.”

  Dean lifted her by the arms, guided her to the sink, and helped her clean the blood from her hands.