Texas Target

by Barb Han

  Whoever was in the shed was stealth. There was no sound and Summer couldn’t tell if the person had just opened the door to see if anyone was inside.

  The light flipped on and Marcy gasped. Their location had been compromised. Summer scrambled to move them to a new location. She needed to get them out of there. Being locked in the small space with a killer wasn’t going to end well.

  Marcy’s wound started bleeding again and Summer was certain they were going to leave a trail of blood. Could she secure Marcy somewhere, maybe in an empty cabinet? Summer could draw attention to herself and then run out the door.

  It was risky. There wasn’t enough time to go through all the reasons this was a very bad idea. Or, map out all the ways in which this plan could backfire.

  All she knew for certain was that if they stayed together, they would most likely die. Trying to move the both of them as a unit might be certain death. Marcy was getting weaker, slower. Her panic was setting in.

  Then again, emergency workers would be there in a matter of minutes. A thought struck. Had the driver left the scene to throw law enforcement off the track?

  Summer was grateful for Dawson as she helped Marcy move toward the far right corner of the building. He wouldn’t be easily tricked and yet he had no idea what was going down.

  Inside the small space that seemed to shrink by the minute, she’d never felt more trapped. She scanned the area, looking for any kind of hiding space for Marcy. She could give her the small handgun Dawson had left with Summer.

  Summer’s hands were shaky as it was. Marcy might be the steadier shooter.

  Another wave of panic engulfed Summer when the light flipped off. Whoever was inside the shed seemed to have gotten his bearings and decided moving in pitch-black was his best option.

  More of those icy chills raced down Summer’s back at the implication. It would also make identifying him that much more difficult should Summer and Marcy survive.

  Another thought struck and it lit a fire deep in her belly. This could be the bastard who’d murdered her sister. At the very least, he was involved.

  More of that white-hot anger licked through her as she placed the gun in Marcy’s shaking hand in case things didn’t go the way Summer planned. She felt around for a cubby space that she could tuck Marcy inside.

  Waiting it out for emergency personnel who might show too late was not an option. Not when this guy was inside the building. Besides, EMTs could be shot on arrival.

  Summer had no idea how it all worked or who would show up. She wasn’t willing to risk her or Marcy’s life to find out. With a deep breath, she helped Marcy into a small space before crawling away. She made sure to swipe her hands on the floor to mess up the dirt trail just in case this guy decided to use a light. Every cell phone had a flashlight app.

  This guy might find them, and he might kill them, but she didn’t have to serve both of them up on a silver platter.

  Winding through the tall stacks of furniture, she ran her hand along the plastic wrapping. Moving from bundle to bundle, she tried to get her bearings. It didn’t take long to realize she was completely turned around. She stopped and listened for signs of him breathing.

  She couldn’t see her own hand if she held it out in front of her face. Hope that she could find the exit fizzled.

  And then Marcy screamed and fired a shot.

  Summer’s bearings came real quick after that. She oriented herself and immediately beat feet, backtracking to Marcy. She could only hope Marcy’s aim was on point.

  Then again, she might have panicked and gotten off a wild shot.

  “Sandy!” Marcy screamed.

  Adrenaline spiked. It wasn’t good that Marcy just let the creep know there was another person in the room. Now he would expect her to show.

  It didn’t matter, because she heard the sounds of a struggle and more screaming came from Marcy. Summer had no choice but to get back to the corner as fast as she could.

  Glorious sirens sounded right outside the shed, close enough to know that help was so near she could almost reach out and touch it. Marcy might not have any more time. Summer might be too late. But she had to try.

  So, she kept moving toward the scuffle.

  The door opened. Light peeked in and she saw Scrappy three feet in front of her. He’d pinned Marcy to the ground and was running his hand along the floor, no doubt trying to find the gun.

  Summer launched herself on top of him, screamed at the top of her lungs for help, and dug her fingernails into his eyes.

  The light flipped on as Summer continued to scream for help.

  “Everyone step outside, hands up.” An authoritative female voice made the demand.

  “There’s a gun. He’s...he killed my sister...”

  This wasn’t the movies. No cop would risk their own life by running in blind.

  Time was the enemy.

  Scrappy refocused all his attention on Summer. He twisted around, his height and weight giving him an advantage. After a grunt, he knocked her flat on her back, but Summer kept digging her fingernails in his face anyway. She clawed at his cheeks when her hands slipped from his eyes.

  Even if he killed her and got away, she’d have enough DNA underneath her fingernails for police to nail him. Justice would be served.

  He drew back his fist and before he could get off a jab, she bucked and rolled. He regrouped a little too quickly as Marcy started kicking.

  It gave Summer the advantage she needed to knock him off balance and roll away from him. Something hard dug into her left arm. She moved away enough to check. It was the gun. Her hands were no longer shaky when she thought about her sister’s senseless murder.

  Scrappy’s hand gripped her shoulder and when he spun her around this time, he met the barrel of a gun. Using her thumb, she clicked off the safety.

  “You better back up right now or they’ll be scraping your brains off the ceiling,” Summer said through clenched teeth.

  His gray eyes widened in shock but he listened.

  “Put your hands in the air,” she demanded. That part of all cop shows rang true.

  Scrappy’s eyes darted from left to right, no doubt looking for an escape route.

  “Don’t even think about it. I’ll shoot.”

  He seemed to debate that for a split second.

  “Give me a reason,” she said, not backing down an inch.

  A female officer poked her head around one of the heavy chests.

  “Drop your weapon,” she demanded.

  Summer had no plans to argue. She moved slowly so the officer would be clear on her intent, lowering the gun to the floor. “Can I move it away from him?”

  “Slide it toward me,” the officer said, her weapon trained on Scrappy.

  Summer complied. “My friend was shot. She’s bleeding pretty badly. Is there an ambulance? She needs medical attention right now.”

  Another officer rounded the other side of the stack of furniture. He didn’t speak but his weapon was trained on Scrappy.

  The door opened.

  “My friend took off. He’s a US marshal. Is he okay?” Summer was desperate for information about Dawson.

  The first cop shook her head.

  “Lace your fingers on top of your head,” she said to Scrappy. He placed his hands up and shot a go-to-hell look at Summer.

  Officer number two moved in and took Scrappy down. In a half second, he was face down chugging dust through his nose and out his mouth.

  “I’m certain this guy was involved in my sister’s murder.” Summer realized that her nose was bleeding. “And he hurt my friend.”

  Marcy was sitting up, hands in the air.

  “She needs medical attention,” Summer repeated just as EMTs arrived on the scene.

  The female officer patted down Summer and then Marcy. She signaled for waiting
emergency workers to go ahead and treat the patient.

  Within minutes, Marcy’s bleeding had stemmed and she was being carried out of the building. Summer followed outside to the waiting ambulance.

  “I’ll come to the hospital as soon as I can,” Summer said, praying she wouldn’t be visiting two people in there.

  Marcy grabbed hold of Summer’s hand.

  “You’ve got this. You’re going to be okay. This is just a speed bump,” Summer reassured.

  Marcy squeezed Summer’s hand and smiled through the oxygen mask.

  “Sorry, ma’am. We’ve gotta roll,” one of the EMTs said.

  “I’ll see you soon,” she said to Marcy, who nodded.

  Summer took a step back and watched as Marcy was loaded into the ambulance, the doors closed and one of the men in uniform bolted around to the driver’s side. Lights on, the ambulance took off.

  She reminded herself that Marcy was in good hands then turned to the female officer to give her statement.

  “Is there a way you can check on my friend the marshal?” she pleaded with the officer, who was beginning to realize Summer wasn’t a threat.

  The officer nodded and spoke low into her radio, and then she listened. “Ten-four. Thank you.”

  “What is it?” Whatever was going on didn’t sound good.

  “Marshal O’Connor was involved in a vehicle chase. The suspect abandoned his vehicle and Marshal O’Connor pursued him on foot. Witnesses near the scene reported shots being fired. The whereabouts of the suspect and Marshal O’Connor are unknown at this time.”

  Summer’s legs turned to rubber and she had to take a step back until she found the golf cart to keep herself upright. She leaned against the solid vehicle with the feeling that it was the only thing connecting her to Dawson.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The officer was short, five feet three inches if Summer had to guess. Her long black hair was in a braid that ran halfway down her back.

  Although she might be tiny, Summer had no doubt the woman could take care of herself.

  “I’ll need to take your statement if you want to help the marshal.” The officer was sympathetic. “I’m Officer Williams.”

  She stuck out her hand.

  “Summer Grayson.” She took the offering.

  Officer Williams looked Summer up and down, focusing on the bloodstain on her pale blue shirt. “Do you need medical care?”

  “It’s Marcy’s blood, not mine. Other than a bloody nose, I’m not hurt.” Summer scanned her body just to be sure. There were going to be a few bruises but nothing that a warm bath and some antibiotic ointment couldn’t handle.

  “Okay. Start from the beginning and tell me everything that happened.” Officer Williams pulled a notepad out of her pocket along with a small pen.

  Summer relayed everything that had happened since they showed up at the apartment complex. “Dawson.” She flashed eyes at the officer. “Marshal O’Connor wrote down the description Marcy provided. Matt visited my sister’s things and most likely took evidence if my sister had any against him.”

  Officer Williams nodded as she jotted down key words along with the description.

  Minutes ticked by with no word on Dawson or the guy he’d abandoned his truck to chase. Summer could barely breathe.

  * * *

  DAWSON TIGHTENED HIMSELF into a ball and rolled back onto his shoulders. Lifting his lower back off the ground, he sprang to his feet in a martial arts kip-up maneuver. He didn’t have time to thank his training when he landed on his feet and in ready position. Runner’s hand was within inches of the Glock.

  He plowed into Runner, closed his arms around the guy’s midsection like a vise, and rolled forward, bringing Runner with him. Dawson dug his fingers into the man’s ribs before tucking and rolling.

  Runner practically howled in pain.

  Unwilling to let up or give the man an inch, Dawson rolled them both onto their sides and wrapped powerful legs around his target in a scissor leg lock. Runner squirmed and tried to break free from Dawson’s grip.

  Not this time.

  Runner twisted and turned, and Dawson squeezed harder, waiting him out. The saying, patience won wars, was as true in hand-to-hand combat as it was in any battle.

  Adrenaline would fade and, at this pace, Runner would deplete his energy. Both were already heaving for air. Dawson made a point to slow his breathing so he could control his racing pulse.

  The struggle started to ease, and Dawson tightened his grip even more. This was where his endurance training would kick in and he damn sure needed it.

  Dawson managed to wrangle one arm around Runner’s elbow, locking it into place. The man was lying on his other arm, rendering it useless. There was still a loaded gun in the vicinity and Dawson couldn’t risk Runner getting to it first.

  Reaching back, Dawson felt around for his Glock. He knew it was close behind him. He just didn’t know how close.

  Arching his back, he reached a little farther. Unfortunately, the move gave Runner enough room to break his elbow free. He jabbed it into Dawson’s chest, knocking the air from his lungs.

  Well, that just angered him even more.

  Dawson bucked as his hand landed on the butt of his weapon. The cold metal felt good in his right hand. He spun around onto his back, bringing Runner with him. The move freed his right hand to bring the Glock up to Runner’s temple.

  “Go ahead. Make another move. Flinch the wrong way and this is all over. I’ll put a bullet through your skull.” The last thing Dawson wanted was to give this guy the easy way out with death.

  “Don’t do that.” Runner grunted, his muscles stiffening. “I can explain this whole mix-up.”

  Mix-up? Dawson grunted.

  Runner, whoever the hell he was, needed to serve his time and spend the rest of his freakin’ life locked behind bars. It was the only way to bring justice to Cheryl, Autumn and their families.

  Despite what Summer had said, Autumn had family. She’d had her sister and no O’Connor would’ve turned their back on her. She’d become part of the family, a rare club that took care of its own. Her legacy was complicated, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have family.

  Tying this bastard to the crimes was another story altogether. A slick guy like this would lawyer up. Running away from a crime scene wasn’t exactly the same as murder.

  “Roll over onto your stomach and keep your hands where I can see them at all times,” Dawson instructed.

  Runner did.

  “Hands behind your back.” Gun trained to Runner’s temple, Dawson rolled onto his side and then he sat up on his knees.

  He was winded, but that didn’t stop him from pulling zip cuffs from his back pocket and tying up Runner’s hands. He patted the man down next and felt in his pocket for a wallet or some form of ID. There were no other weapons. All Runner had on him was a money clip with close to a thousand dollars in mostly hundred-dollar bills.

  It figured there’d be no ID. If Dawson had to guess there wouldn’t be anything tying the SUV back to this guy, either. He was smooth. This had been well thought out. And it might’ve worked against a civilian.

  “What’s your name, sir?” Dawson knew to dot every i and cross every t when it came to this guy. There was no way he was making a mistake that could cost the case.

  When Runner didn’t answer, Dawson identified himself one more time as law enforcement before Mirandizing him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Backup arrived.

  Dawson had never been so happy to see fellow law enforcement officers. And they came running. A pair who looked opposite in every way possible came bolting toward him and Runner.

  “Marshal O’Connor, sir, I’d be honored to help you with this suspect,” the first one said. He was on the short side. Dawson would guess him to be in his early twenties. What he lacked in
height he made up for in brawn. He had the body of a world-class gymnast. His nameplate read Smith.

  “Be my guest.” Dawson moved back enough to lean the back of his head on the nearest building to try to catch his breath. Every place he’d been kicked, punched or jabbed was waking up, making its presence known, bringing all kinds of pain to the forefront. He couldn’t focus on any of that right now. “I had to leave behind my...” Words failed him on exactly how to describe his relationship to Summer. He decided on, “Girlfriend and an office worker at an apartment complex. One of them was shot and I don’t know how bad the injury is. Do you—”

  The second officer, Jenkins, was tall with dark skin and a mustache. He was nodding his head. “We’ve been following along on the radio. One of the victims was taken to the hospital by ambulance, the GSW. The other is giving her statement to a colleague, Officer Williams.”

  “Is there a way I can talk to her?” Dawson needed to hear Summer’s voice. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he needed to know she was all right. Hells bells, O’Connor. The reason was obvious. He loved her. He wanted to know she was all right because the thought of losing her knocked him in the chest so hard he couldn’t breathe.

  “I can call Officer Williams,” Jenkins offered.

  Dawson nodded.

  “What’s your name, sir?” Officer Smith asked Runner.

  Apparently, the guy was invoking his right to remain silent.

  “He didn’t talk for me, either,” Dawson said as he watched Jenkins make the call.

  When the officer turned the phone over, Dawson immediately listened for Summer’s voice.

  “Dawson, are you there?” Her voice was like velvet.

  “I’m here.” He took a second to breathe as relief flooded him. Hearing her voice set things right inside him that he didn’t realize had been broken. “I heard Marcy’s on her way to the hospital.”

  “She looked pretty bad, Dawson. There was so much blood and then the skinny guy from—”

  “Hold on a second. What skinny guy?” All his internal alarm bells sounded. The thought he’d left them alone and vulnerable tightened the knot in his gut. And then it dawned on him who she was talking about. The two guys who’d chased her were nicknamed Scrappy and Thick Guy. “The one from a few days ago?”