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THWACK. The bullet collided with the car at Riley’s back a moment before a retort echoed in the stale air of the junkyard.

As she ducked beneath the heap of twisted metal that once was a sleek Porsche, a second shot shattered the driver’s window. She covered her head, but it was no use. Glass shards rained down, clinging to her hair as a sliver sliced her cheek.

Her heart raged in her chest, stealing her breath.

She gripped the SIG, her finger on the trigger.

Sweat slithered down her brow, clouding her eyes.

Greyson was right. This had been an awful idea. If only she’d listened to him—at least this once.

“You’re going to die,” Pete Scarletto said with a lilt of laughter.

Please come. Why was it taking the police so long? She exhaled. Don’t let this end in death. She’d never taken a life, and she didn’t want to start now. She knew how to shoot, but a man was far different from bottles on a fence post.

“You hear me? You’re dead,” he roared, his anger vibrating in her chest.

She shifted, the sharp edge of the bumper cutting through her jacket, lashing her back. She smothered a cry. She couldn’t give away her position.

A sharp, splitting pain burned across the top of her ear seconds before the report. He’d found her. She was as good as dead. Her full hope rested on the police to stop this before she had to pull the trigger.

Please turn the corner. Please. I don’t want to do this. But he was giving her no choice. It was him or her.

Hot tears streaked down her cheeks, her heart racing, adrenaline burning her limbs.

Footsteps sounded.

Closer.

Closer.

She held her breath.

Pete’s extended arm stretched into her line of sight, his Beretta visible past the edge of the twisted pile of metal, his finger on the trigger. He rounded the heap, and she fired.