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Cole’s heart jackhammered, the pounding competing with the bullets.

Around him, time slowed, seconds passing between each rapid-fire bullet spraying the camper. His thoughts raced through the cacophony.

How am I getting us out of this? I should never have agreed to it.

Lord , help me find a way.

Because right now, the worst-case scenario was going down. How could Cole have let this happen? He started up. Both women were down on the floor.

“Stay here,” he said.

“What?” Jo shouted. “No, Cole, you can’t go out there!”

“We’re all going to die if I don’t end this,” he said.

Cole would wait until the shooter reloaded, and he prayed they stayed alive that long.

Then ... the gunfire stopped.

Was the shooter reloading? Coming to check on the carnage?

Cole quietly crawled to the door, which had been shredded and remained attached by only one hinge.

He slipped out and rolled onto the ground and then up to an older truck.

Pressing his back against the truck, gun locked and loaded, he peered around the vehicle, searching for the shooter—or shooters.

He couldn’t know how many had been involved.

A siren rang out, echoing against the trees and across the water.

At least law enforcement was coming, but they usually made their appearance after the fact.

He couldn’t wait that long. And Cole needed more than one deputy to show up.

The report of a firearm resounded much too close, and Cole searched for the source.

Still hiding behind the truck, he made his way around to the back.

The bait shop guy—Chuck—aimed his rifle to the south. He fired again, and again, then cursed.

Cole kept his handgun at the ready. Chuck dropped his rifle to his side, then jogged over to where Cole stood by the truck.

“He got away. I might have hit him, but he still got away.” Expression grim, he glanced at the trailer and shook his head.

“There was just one?” Cole asked.

“That I saw, yes. Any survivors?”

Without replying, Cole raced to the trailer, threw open the door, which tumbled to the ground, then stepped inside. “Jo? Naomi?”

Jo held on to Naomi, tears racing down her face. “She’s been shot. I called for an ambulance.”

The woman grabbed Jo’s hand, trying to speak. Cole fell to his knees and pressed his hand against the wound in her gut. Fear for her gripped him.

Naomi whispered, “Look up...” The rest of what she said was so garbled, Cole couldn’t understand.

She closed her eyes. Dead? Unconscious? Boots clomped on the steps.

“Out of the way. Out of the way.” Medics stood at the entrance, but they couldn’t get in.

Cole pulled Jo to her feet and ushered her to the other end of the camper. He really wanted out that door, but the medics were blocking their egress.

He never should have let Naomi arrange the meeting. He hadn’t known about the camper, and when she revealed her plan, he should have refused, but he feared the woman was already spooked and wouldn’t share what she knew.

So many what-ifs left his head spinning as he and Jo waited in the small space, hoping for an escape. What was she thinking? He turned her to face him and lifted her chin to look in her eyes.

Just what he expected. The look of pain suffused her gaze and twisted up his gut.

“Why? Why does this keep happening?” she asked.

“Shh.” He pulled her to him. He couldn’t think of an adequate response.

“Excuse me.” A deputy stuck his head through the door and looked around, his eyes landing on Cole. “The sheriff wants to speak to you.”

Yet another sheriff. Another law enforcement entity.

The list was growing and, at this rate, would soon be a big, tangled ball of law enforcement string.

He half expected the feds to finally get involved at some point.

Cole led Jo out of the camper and over to the covered porch behind the bait shop.

Cole introduced himself and Jo and explained what happened, but he couldn’t answer why.

“WSP is already looking into the incident on the ferry,” he said, “and I believe Detective Hargrove will be interested in what happened here today.”

“He’s interested because you met with the victim’s sister.” The sheriff’s grim expression was understandable.

“Yes, sir.”

“Chuck informed me he tried to take him out,” the sheriff said, “to stop him, but he got away. So we have a dangerous gunman on the loose in my county because you decided to meet here.”

“This meeting location wasn’t our decision,” Jo said.

“Why is someone after you, Ms. Cattrel?” the sheriff asked.

“I wish someone would get to the bottom of that and let me know!” Jo crossed her arms.

Cole sensed she had much more to say but held it all inside.

“Did you get a look at the shooter?” the sheriff asked.

“I was inside for most of it, so—”

“Sheriff?” Chuck called as he exited the bait shop onto the porch, apparently listening in. “I got better than a look. Hood, Line and Sinker might not look like much, but I have security cameras running. I got footage of him.”

“I want to see it,” Jo said. “I want to know who tried to kill us!”

He hoped they could know if the gunman was the same man on the ferry by just looking at his eyes.

In Hood, Line and Sinker, they all crowded into a small office and stood around a computer screen to watch the footage. The man was dressed in jeans and a heavy jacket and boots. He wore a ball cap that shaded his eyes. Of course. Now they couldn’t see his eyes.

But they saw his jaw. The rest of his face. He was in his late forties but appeared fit. Skilled. Ex-military? Interesting.

“Can I have a copy of this?” Cole asked.

“I’ll be entering it into evidence,” the sheriff said.

“Good, but I’d like a copy, or you can share with the WSP’s Detective Hargrove and Detective Wilson at the Lansing Michigan PD Cold Case Unit.”

The sheriff narrowed his eyes for a moment. “What is this about?”

“I wish I knew,” Jo said.

An idea—a worst-case scenario—kept gnawing at the back of Cole’s mind, and he didn’t much like it.