Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(72)

I’m deeply grateful . . . and then I’m wary too. I don’t know Fairweather that well, and though he seems trustworthy enough, maybe he isn’t. Or maybe Wolfhunter has gotten under my skin and is poisoning my view of everyone I’ve met since coming into its dark borders. “No need. Sam’s friend is FBI, and he’s there helping out.”

“Friends in high places?”

I don’t acknowledge that. “Sam will make it through the night. And I’ll be back in the morning as soon as I can. We will get him out of there. He shot a man who was trying to kill him and Connor. Self-defense, pure and simple.”

“It’s never so simple when the victim’s law enforcement. I hear he’s charged with manslaughter. You might have tough sledding making a self-defense case. You going to hire Hector Sparks?”

“Do I have much of a choice?”

We flash past a mile marker that tells me we’re now five miles outside of Wolfhunter. I start to relax a little. Got a tense drive to make, and a short sleep coming, but just being out of that town’s shadow makes me feel better. “Thank you for reaching out, Detective. It means a lot to know you’re paying attention to what’s going on in this town.”

“Oh, trust me, I am,” he says. “Okay, Ms. Proctor, you drive safe, and I’ll talk to you—”

A rifle shot explodes through our back window and out the front. I register the icy fracture of the glass an instant before I hear the hot crack of the shot.

The first impulse that shoots through me is red, urgent, and it makes me pull the wheel to the side. The car lurches sickeningly, and even as I consciously form a plan, I’m pressing the gas to the floor and straightening out to avoid running off the road. I hear Lanny screaming something, and that’s when I focus on the round hole that’s been punched in our front window, and the thick spiderweb of cracks still expanding out from it. The back window is worse. I gasp and check my side mirror.

We’re being chased.

There’s a truck behind us, and a guy standing in the bed of it leaning forward and bracing himself. He’s got a hunting rifle of some kind, and he’s taking aim. We’re going fast, but our pursuers are gaining.

“Connor!” I shout. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Lanny!”

“Mom, they’re shooting at us!”

“Both of you, get down and hold on!”

It takes a precious couple of seconds for them to be concealed, protected, and I compensate by swerving over the line and back to spoil the bastard’s aim. Once I’m sure my kids are okay, I take another deep breath, send off a microsecond of prayer, and hit the brakes as hard as I can.

My SUV screeches, fights, tries to slide. I leave a long trail of thick rubber on the road.

The pickup behind me is forced to brake hard, because they’d been accelerating to get closer, and the rifleman gets thrown against the cab so violently that he loses his rifle. It clatters to the road and bounces off into a ditch. Before they’re fully stopped, I’m flooring the SUV again and reaching for my phone. I intend to dial 911, but I realize that I’ve forgotten all about Detective Fairweather. He’s shouting in my ear. “Gwen! Gwen what the hell is—”

“Call 911,” I tell him. “We’re just past five miles out on the main road. We’re being followed by a pickup, and a man with a rifle is in the bed shooting—”

Another shot shatters more glass. He has a backup gun. I can barely see the road ahead, but I can crouch and look through a clear patch. Keep us on the road. I don’t dare slow down. Fairweather’s saying something, but I can’t understand him. My attention is fixed on the problem behind me. I finally realize he’s saying license number, description. Yelling it, actually.

“I can’t see it,” I tell him. “There’s no light out here! Pickup, definitely. One shooter in the bed of the truck, Jesus, my kids are here . . .”

I can hear him repeating what I’ve said. He must have two phones going. “Okay, dispatch is sending a county sheriff cruiser your way; he’ll be coming from the opposite direction. They want you to pull over when you see it coming at you; do you understand?”

“I’m not stopping until the pickup does!” I tell him. “Ben, my kids . . .” I take a deep breath. “The driver’s a white male, clean shaven, looks thin, maybe thirty . . .”

More shots ring out. I look back and see the shooter is up again, a bearded asshole in an old camo jacket and trucker hat. He doesn’t have his rifle anymore, but he’s got a semiautomatic handgun, and he’s pumping off shots as fast as he can. There’s a curve, and I have to slow down or risk a wreck, and multiple shots land in the metal of the car. I hear it, and feel the impact. But at least he’s not as good a shot with the handgun as he was with a rifle. I accelerate again once we’re grooved into the curve. My SUV has better running power.

I can’t see any cars coming. We’re completely alone.

“How long until the damn cruiser gets here?” I shout it at Fairweather.

“Five minutes,” he says. “Hold on, Gwen. They’re coming.”

In five minutes we’re going to be dead if the shooter manages to hit a tire, which is what he’s trying to do. “Kids? Are you okay?” My voice is shaking. I’m not sure if that’s from rage or terror or both.