Minutes to Kill (Scarlet Falls #2)(65)

“Breaking news: Shooting in progress, Scarlet Falls, NY.”

She ran to the bottom of the stairs. “Chet!”

He appeared on the top landing. His face was drained of color.

“You heard about the shooting?” She glanced back at the TV. A commercial played. The blue banner was unchanged. No new information.

“What shooting?” He descended the stairs.

She pointed at the TV. The thought of Brody shot and killed took Hannah out at the knees. She wobbled. Chet grabbed her arm and eased her onto the couch. “I’ll find out what happened.” He reached for the phone.

Eyes locked on the TV, Hannah wrapped her arms around her body. Chet had been upset before she’d told him about the shooting. He ended his call. “He’ll call me back as soon as he has details.”

Who was shot?

He sat on the sofa next to her, eyes riveted on the TV.

“What happened before I called you?”

“I opened my e-mail. There are more than three hundred messages in there from the last six months.”

“Are you going to open them?”

“I don’t know,” Chet said.

A blond female reporter in a newsroom appeared on the TV. She read from a teleprompter. “A report just in. A shooting is in progress at a kennel in Scarlet Falls. At least one police officer has been shot.”





Chapter Twenty-Four Brody dove for the ground. A bullet whizzed past his head. Weapon in hand, he crawled to the steps and took cover behind the thick concrete. The suspect was firing through the windows from inside the house. At that angle, he couldn’t shoot Brody without coming outside.

But Brody was pinned. He couldn’t see the shooter from his position.

Where was Stella?

Had she retreated to the car? She couldn’t have left him and Lance. Disappointment swamped Brody as he scanned the area.

Wait. He saw her moving behind the unmarked car. Crouching, she ran to the trunk, opened it, and removed Brody’s AR-15. Holding the rifle across her body, she moved toward him.

She hadn’t run. She’d gone for a longer-range weapon. Smart girl. Relief flooded Brody.

Another shot came from inside the house, puffing the dirt in front of Stella. Brody looked up. Just the tip of the muzzle of a rifle protruded through a hole in the glass. Stella went flat, took aim, and fired a three-shot burst. The shooter went quiet.

Had she hit him? And was Lance still alive?

Twenty feet away from Brody, the downed officer’s feet kicked on the ground. Not only was he still alive, he was trying to inch away from the house. But his body didn’t budge. His injuries were too serious, and he appeared too weak to move. Blood stained the grass next to his leg. Too much blood for Lance to last very long without help. But to get to him, Brody was going to have to cover open ground. He’d be a clear target, like a metal duck in a shooting gallery.

To save Lance, Brody would have to trust Stella.

“Can you cover me?” he shouted.

She nodded and lifted the rifle. Sweat soaked Brody’s shirt. She yelled something back, but Brody didn’t hear it. His hearing was muffled, as if he were wearing the double layers of ear protection he used at the firing range.

Brody levered a knee under his body, launched to his feet, and ran for Lance. Stella fired at the window as Brody crossed the grass, grabbed Lance under the armpits, and dragged him toward the police cars. Lance’s blue eyes were wide open and hazed with fear and pain.

A shot rang from the house. A bullet whizzed by Brody’s head. He dropped, covering Lance with his own torso. Stella took aim and fired again. Then she straightened, waiting. Quiet descended again. Brody’s hearing returned as suddenly as it had disappeared. He heard the wind and Lance’s groans beneath him. The thin wail of an approaching siren floated in the air.

Brody pulled Lance behind the police vehicles. The cop’s pale face was turned away. Was he alive? Brody kept one eye on the house and reached for his neck. A pulse thrummed weakly against his fingertips.

In his peripheral vision, he saw a red stain spreading in the dirt next to Lance’s leg. The bullet had struck him in the thigh. Blood was turning the gravel muddy. He was bleeding out fast. Brody yanked off Lance’s clip-on uniform tie, folded it in half, and pressed it to the wound. Then he yanked off his own tie, looped it around Lance’s leg, and tied it snugly. The blood flow seemed to slow, or was that Brody’s wishful thinking? “Hang on, Lance.”

Lance’s eyes darted in wild circles. “Where is he?”

“No worries. Stella’s got us covered,” Brody said.

A door slammed. The shooter ran out the side exit of the house, a rifle in one hand, two bags in the other.

“Stop. Police,” Stella yelled.

The man whirled and fired a round at them. Stella answered with a burst from the AR-15. The shooter stumbled. She’d hit him. He recovered, though his pace was slower as he limped toward the barn. A few seconds later, a Camry roared out of the barn and over the field on the other side of the house. The vehicle fishtailed as it made a high-speed turn onto the road and sped away.

Sweat dripped into Brody’s eye, blurring his vision. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Did you get the plate number?”

“No. Too far.” Moving toward him, Stella used the radio on her collar to update dispatch and give a basic description of the vehicle and suspect.