Colton Christmas Protector (The Coltons of Texas #12)(22)

“Gun!”

The muzzle flash and crack of his windshield were simultaneous.

Pen screamed.

“Get down!” he yelled even as he yanked her arm, pulling her down on the seat. He ducked, too, as another shot slammed into his front hood. He shifted automatically into cop mode. Crisis mode. Protect Pen. Consider civilians—the old man raking. ID the gunman. Age, race, anything!

The sedan rolled straight toward them. He narrowed his eyes, lifting a hand to block the sun’s glare behind the approaching car. Another bullet hit the side of the truck with an ominous thunk.

“Reid!” Pen cried, reaching for him, tugging at his jacket sleeve as if to pull him down onto the floorboard with her.

He only had a split moment to decide: flee or stand and defend. The cop in him refused to retreat. He had a better chance of protecting Pen by shielding her, and he’d rather catch or kill the bastard responsible than run from him.

“Glove box!” he returned, and she scrambled for the Smith & Wesson .40 he kept stored there.

He had only a second to study the person in the driver’s seat as the sedan neared. Reid’s angle was bad, seated higher in his truck than the guy in the car. The shooter’s face was largely hidden by the bill of a ball cap. Dark winter coat. Caucasian male.

Pen raised her head for a look, the pistol clutched in a two-handed firing grip.

Another muzzle flash had Reid diving for cover. “I said get down!”

He watched the roof of the blue car pull alongside them, and he pushed her head down again. Reid shielded Penelope as the shooter took direct aim now through the truck’s driver-side window.

“Sonofabitch!” Reid snarled, raising an arm for protection as shards of glass from his blasted-out window rained down on them.

Penelope yelped, and Reid’s gut swooped. “Are you hit?”

“I don’t think—”

Tires squealed as the car raced away.

Pen shoved at him and climbed onto the seat, twisting toward the shattered back window. She aimed the Smith & Wesson at the fleeing vehicle, and Reid grabbed her wrist. “No!”

“I can shoot! Andrew taught me!”

He, too, surged up to look out the back window, squinting at the suspect’s back bumper. “There are bystanders!”

“But... Damn it!” she growled and lowered her hands. Hands shaking, she set the pistol on the seat beside her.

He shared her frustration and gritted his teeth in disgust. “Write this down... BHD43. That’s as much of the plate as I got.”

Flicking away bits of the broken window, she dug in her purse and found a pen and an old receipt. Trembling, she jotted down the partial plate number.

Reid, too, was shaking, the aftermath of his spiked adrenaline, and he carefully shook the shards of broken window from his shirt and out of his hair. “Careful of all the glass.”

“Right. I—” She paused and swallowed hard. “What the hell was that about? A drive-by in this neighborhood?”

“I don’t think it was a drive-by in the sense that you mean.” He cut the engine, leaving his truck in the spot where they’d been attacked. By doing so, the police would be better able to trace the trajectory, find the bullets for a ballistics report and analyze the crime scene. He mentally replayed what had transpired and came up with a chilling conclusion.

They’d been targeted. The blue sedan had been parked down the block, waiting for them. But why?

He faced Pen and pushed her hair back from her face. Touching his finger to a small cut on her face, he wiped away the crimson bead there. “You’re bleeding. Mostly nicks, but you need first aid.”

She cast a side glance at him and gave a short, humorless laugh. “Have you looked in a mirror? I’m not the only one.”

He didn’t care about himself. He’d sustained far worse in the line of duty over the years. And a guy didn’t grow up with as many rowdy siblings and half siblings and all the inherent rivalry without scrapes and bruises on a daily basis.

The older man who’d been raking appeared at the passenger-side window. “Are y’all all right? Hell’s bells! I can’t believe what this world’s coming to!”

“We’re not hit, but you might check on the neighbors. A stray bullet could have pierced a door or window.” Reid turned to survey the houses, looking for obvious damage.

“I don’t feel so good.” Pen pressed a hand to her mouth.

She did look pale. Nausea in the wake of such a scare was common enough. Reid put a hand on the back of her head and pushed her forward. “Bend over. Head between your legs.”

The older neighbor pulled a chunky old flip phone from his pocket. “I’m calling 911. You should get her an ice pack for that bump on her head.”

Bump? Reid ducked his head and pulled Pen’s chin toward him so he could see the other side of her face. Sure enough, a goose egg was swelling at her temple. “Damn, Pen. Did I do that when I shoved you down?”

She covered the injury with her hand and shrugged. “No sweat. Better a bump on the head than a bullet in my brain.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You probably saved my life.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” her neighbor said, lifting his phone to his ear and pointing to the passenger headrest.