Page 58 of Luck of the Devil (Harper Adams Mystery #3)

Carrying the rifle under my right arm, I grabbed Malcolm’s upper arm and hauled him upright.

He swayed but stayed on his feet.

“Good,” I said, my relief palpable. “You take off for the trees, and I’ll cover you.”

He grunted, clearly pissed, but didn’t argue. He staggered forward, nearly face-planting, then managed a few more steps.

I moved behind him, walking backward with the rifle raised, ready to fire.

We made it about ten yards before I spotted a bright orange glow in the backseat of the car. If it blew, I wasn’t sure we were far enough away.

More shots cracked through the night, ricocheting off metal and earth. I doubted they could see us—just like I couldn’t see them through the thick smoke.

So much for the take-them-alive plan.

I glanced over my shoulder, terrified I’d see James crumpled on the ground, either because he’d lost his balance or he’d been hit. But he was still upright, staggering like a drunk man.

I turned back toward the hill, making sure no one had flanked the car, then checked on James again. He’d made it to the trees, bracing himself with both hands on a trunk to stay upright. We’d only taken a few more steps when an explosion ripped through the night, slamming me into a tree.

The impact crushed the air from my lungs, pain radiating through my chest and stomach. I dropped the rifle and hit the ground hard, landing on my ass. Dazed, I scanned wildly for Malcolm.

Panic surged when I didn’t see him, but then I spotted him, lying on the ground a few yards away, deathly still.

I tried to call his name but couldn’t find the breath. I crawled to him, terror rising with every inch.

His face was turned toward me, his eyes shut. Dread clogged my throat as I pressed two fingers to his carotid. For the second time in less than twenty minutes.

If he was dead, it would be my fault for not calling 911.

But his heartbeat pulsed against my fingertip.

I nearly collapsed with relief.

I finally sucked in a breath, wheezing.

“James,” I whispered, shaking his shoulder.

He didn’t respond. He was out cold.

He was only ten feet from where the forest’s understory grew dense enough to hide us, but there was no way I could drag him deeper into that cover.

Which meant I had to go with my original plan to draw them away from him. I’d told them he was dead. Maybe they’d believed it. If I could keep them distracted for twenty-five minutes, our reinforcements would show up to save us both.

I brushed my thumb across his cheek, swallowing back tears.

I could do this. I had to.

Rising to my feet, I started weaving through the scattered, smaller trees, staying a good ten feet from the forest’s edge. I kept glancing back at James until the shadows swallowed him.

The moment he vanished from my sight, panic clawed at my chest. But I reminded myself it was the best way to protect him.

I had to believe that.

When I got far enough away, I quickened my pace, keeping my gaze on the area around the car. It was fully engulfed now. Maybe my plan had worked a little too well.

As I neared the corner where the terrain rose toward the road, movement caught my eye. Two men were descending the incline, their rifles sweeping with flashlight beams, cutting through the dark.

I didn’t hesitate. I lifted my gun, aimed at the first man, and fired. A slight shift and I fired again. If they cried out in death, I didn’t hear it over the roar of the flames.

More figures appeared at the top of the hill, weapons raised.

I bolted, plunging deeper into the trees as bullets pinged around me, splintering bark and whistling through the air. I didn’t feel the sting of a gunshot, but I knew not to trust that.

Adrenaline could lie.

I started to climb the hill, toward the road. My original plan had been to distract them, but taking out two more had emboldened me.

The darkness gave me the advantage. A figure descended through the trees about ten feet to my left, his body backlit by the headlights of one of their vehicles.

I darted behind a tree, raised my rifle, aimed for his chest, then pulled the trigger.

He dropped like a rock, the brush crackling beneath him.

“Grayson!” a man called out.

I continued my ascent, pushing deeper into the woods. It was harder to see them through the trees, but another man appeared at the edge of the tree line.

Hiding behind a tree trunk, I slowly lifted my rifle. The trees obscured my shot—until the man stepped forward, exposing his chest and head.

“Grayson!” he shouted, just as I pulled the trigger.

He fell in a heap, but he was close enough to the clearing that his buddies saw him fall.

A storm of bullets rained on me.

I flattened against the trunk, praying it was wide enough to give me complete cover. My heart raced as I listened for footsteps.

“Got him!” a voice yelled.

My heart dropped.

I chanced a glance and saw two men carrying a lifeless-looking James toward one of the SUVs.

I never should have left him.

Panic surged through me. I tried to line up a shot, but the shooters to my right fired again, forcing me to take cover.

I struggled to think clearly through the panic. If they got away, I might never find him, and I had no doubt they wouldn’t let him leave alive.

I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

I couldn’t let them take him.

More bullets sprayed around me, wild and unfocused. They were shooting blind, hoping to get lucky. I decided to take a risk and trust the cover of the trees. Darting up the hill to a larger trunk about five feet away, I pressed my back to the rough bark and tried to catch my breath.

The men were slightly below me now, advancing. I raised my rifle and waited. When one of them peered around a tree, I took my shot.

He cried out in pain, but he didn’t drop.

I shot a glance at the SUV. They had the back passenger door open and were lifting James inside. I wasn’t sure I had a clear shot, and even if I did, they might drop him on the asphalt. What if they dropped him on his head? I didn’t know much more damage his head could take.

Before I could act, they tossed him inside and slammed the door. One guy moved toward the front passenger door. The other circled around the front of the SUV, out of view.

I lowered my rifle a few inches. Maybe I could take out a tire. I tried to get it in my sights, but bullets slammed into the tree I was hiding behind, splintering the bark in every direction. I dropped lower, hugging the trunk and praying I was still out of sight.

I was in serious trouble, but so was Malcolm.

What the hell was I going to do?

I’d lost track of how many shots I’d made. I popped out the used magazine, dug a fresh one from my pocket, and slid it into place.

Just as I heard the soft click of it locking in, a face appeared to my right. A man grinned at me, smug that he’d snuck up on me.

We were too close to use our rifles, but mine was already in hand. I rammed the butt into his gut, then whipped it up to smash his nose.

He doubled over, howling. Seconds later, more shots rang out, and the man next to me dropped.

His own partner had shot him.

That didn’t bode well for Malcolm. My urgency increased.

I spotted the revolver of the man on the ground next to me, hanging from a holster on his waist. I dropped to a squat and reached for it, hoping I didn’t take a bullet. More shots hit the trees around me, but I yanked the gun free and ducked back behind the trunk.

Just in time to see the SUV peel away from the shoulder.

Fuck.

I raised my rifle and released a round at the rear of the SUV. Bullets pinged off the metal, but the vehicle sped off, tearing down the county road—heading toward Malcolm’s tavern.

Were they after the papers?

Malcolm would die before giving them up.

Panic mushroomed inside of me. Even if I got away from these assholes, Malcolm’s car was a burning heap. How was I supposed to follow them?

Then I spotted the second SUV.

I just had to take care of the rest of these guys and go after him.

Rationally, I knew it was an insane plan. Hell, it wasn’t a plan at all. More like a wish, but I was determined to make it happen.

I turned and peeked around the tree. I spotted a man sprinting up the hill. I pulled the handgun from my waistband and braced against the tree, firing three quick shots toward his chest and neck.

He stumbled, clutching his throat. I was close enough to see the bewildered look in his eyes as blood streamed between his fingers. He dropped to his knees, his rifle swinging from the strap over his shoulder.

I stepped out from behind the tree, pointing the handgun at his head.

“Where are they taking him?”

His eyes filled with fear, but not of me. He knew he was dying.

“Where are they taking him?” I shouted. I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d tell me, but I had to try.

He opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out, but I could easily read the fuck you on his lips before he fell to his side, the light fading out of his eyes.

Dammit.

I shoved the handgun back into my waistband, raised the rifle, and scanned the trees.

The woods were silent other than the crackle of the flames and creaking of the expanding metal.

Then I heard it.

A moan.

It came from farther down the hill. I saw a pair legs sprawled on the ground, the upper body propped awkwardly against a tree.

I crept closer, rifle ready, praying for answers but prepared for another fight.

The wounded man’s face was pale. My earlier shot had caught him in the shoulder. The wound gaped open, soaking his shirt in blood.

He was bleeding out.

He glanced up, flinching when he saw me, bracing for the end.

“I not going to kill you,” I said, stepping closer. “But only if you tell me where they’re taking him.”

He licked his cracked lips. “I know I’m dead anyway. No one’s coming to save me.”

My heart dropped.

I could torture him, but I hadn’t sunk that low.

Not yet.

“Why are you tryin’ so hard to save him?” he asked with a soft shake of his head. “That man ain’t worth savin’.”

His words sent a chill down my spine. I knew James had been ruthless before—hell, I’d seen signs of it myself—but he’d never struck me as irredeemable. “Then I guess you don’t know him like I do.”

He made a face like my answer satisfied him. “I have a girl too.”

I didn’t like where this was going. It was one thing to shoot a nameless gunman hell-bent on kidnapping or killing me. That was survival of the fittest. But this made him real.

A person who was dying.

Because of me.

“I bet she’d do anything she could to save you,” I said, my words thick.

“Nah.” He gave a faint smile. “She’s too soft. But I love her anyway.”

“I’m sure she loves you. And if someone had taken you, she’d fight like hell to get you back. Just like I’m doing. Please —I’m begging you. Tell me where they took him.”

He looked at me again, his gaze distant and unfocused. “You must really love him.”

I was pretty sure lying to a dying man was some kind of unforgiveable sin, but I was out of options.

“You have no idea,” I said. “I can’t live without him. So, please. Please , tell me where they took him.”

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “An abandoned factory on the west side of town. That’s all I’ve got. She’s waitin’ there for him.”

“Nicole Knox?” I asked, but he didn’t answer.

I’d killed this man.

Guilt clung to me like yoke, heavy and cold. But I’d had no choice. It had been them or us, and I’d chosen us.

I could deal with the guilt later.

Right now, I had to save James.

I patted the outside of the dead man’s pockets, hoping to feel the outline of keys or a key fob. Nothing. I made my way up the hill to the next guy, and then next—still nothing.

Frustrated, I sprinted to the SUV and yanked open the driver’s door. To my shock, the key fob was sitting in the cupholder like a gift from the universe. I muttered a quick thanks to whatever deity was watching over me as I started the engine, threw it into drive and hit the gas.

The warehouse was at least twenty minutes away. And they had a ten-minute head start.

I just hoped I wasn’t too late.