Snapped

by Laura Griffin

  Jonah thought of his dad. And Sophie. He dropped to a knee and did a quick pulse check before rooting through the sniper’s pockets. He came up with not one set of car keys but two.

  Jonah’s mind reeled. Was there another getaway car? Another accomplice?

  He shoved both keys into his pocket and took off running.

  Sophie couldn’t wait any longer. Wyatt needed help now. She shoved the truck in gear and slowly pressed the gas.

  The truck inched forward, then stopped. She heard the painful sound of something hard grinding against rock. She shifted into reverse and tried that way, with no better result.

  Sophie cast a frantic look at Wyatt. His skin looked gray now and his pulse was thready. She didn’t know what was going on with Jonah—couldn’t even bear to think what those pistol shots meant—but she knew she had to do whatever she could to get them out of here. She engaged the four-wheel drive and tried backing up again.

  Movement.

  The truck lurched backward, bumping over something in the road. Or was it the tire tread? She had no idea, but they were rolling. She peered between the gap in the two front seats at the rectangle of blue behind her. Nothing tall, at least. She was still afraid to peek her head over the dash, but she did her best to navigate as she steered backward toward what felt like the direction of the woods. How far could she manage to go on one good tire? The air smelled like burning rubber, and an excruciating scraping noise was coming up from the front wheels. Was there any chance she could find the road and make it out to the highway?

  They hit a bump, and Wyatt slid forward in the seat. Sophie stopped the truck and leaned over to catch him.

  Noise outside. A vehicle approaching. Loud, bigger than a car. She grabbed the pistol off her lap and held her breath. Oh, Lord. Would she have the courage to shoot someone? Or would she be paralyzed with fear?

  Sophie leaned back against Wyatt’s body and pointed the gun.

  “Sophie!”

  Jonah dashed for the truck and stopped short as he found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol. She was sprawled across the front seat, shielding his father’s body with her own as she leveled that gun at him.

  She went limp with relief, and Jonah yanked open the door.

  “Is he alive?”

  “Barely. He needs help.”

  Jonah was already rounding the hood to go to the other side. He jerked open the door.

  “Is it safe now? The sniper’s dead?”

  He met her gaze over his father’s motionless body. “He’s dead.” The words sent a chill down Jonah’s spine as he scooped his dad up and heaved him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Jonah rounded the truck.

  “Get in the back. Help me get him in.”

  She hurried to the Explorer and yanked open the door. Jonah tried to muscle his dad inside and onto the backseat without jarring his wound.

  Sophie went around to the other side and helped pull him through using his uninjured arm. Then she climbed in the back and settled his head on her lap as she jerked shut the door.

  “Go!”

  Jonah grabbed a barn jacket from the pickup, rushed back to the Explorer, and jumped behind the wheel. He took off for the nearest road—a back route that skirted the south of the property before spitting out on the main highway.

  “We need a phone. A landline,” Sophie said. “We need to call an ambulance.”

  “No time.” Jonah floored the pedal, going as fast as he dared over the rugged terrain. This SUv wasn’t designed for these conditions and they had no time for a flat tire.

  Jonah’s heart pounded. He glanced at Sophie in the rearview mirror. She was adjusting the bandage, which seemed to consist of both of their shirts now. She had a determined fire in her eyes, and he thought about how she’d looked aiming that gun at him. She’d been shielding his father with her own body, and Jonah had no doubt that if he hadn’t called her name out the second he did, she would have blown him away.

  Jonah took the barn jacket off the seat beside him and shoved it back at her. “Put this on.”

  She grabbed it and pulled it into her lap, making it a pillow for his dad’s head.

  The SUv bounced as they hit a rut. Jonah eased his foot off the gas, but not much. They didn’t have time.

  Sophie glanced around impatiently. “Why aren’t we taking the main road?”

  “Get your head down,” he told her. “There could be another shooter.”

  The frantic race to the hospital turned into an unbearable wait.

  Sophie fetched a third soft drink from the vending machine and trudged back down the hallway to the waiting room, where Jonah sat with a pair of FBI agents. They’d been interviewing him for an hour now, and she could tell he’d had enough. Every few seconds his gaze darted to the double doors, where he was hoping a doctor would appear to deliver the outcome of Wyatt’s surgery.

  Sophie didn’t think it was good. She wasn’t normally a pessimist, but she couldn’t keep the feeling of dread from closing in on her. She remembered way too many times when her father would come home after a marathon surgery, and the defeated look on his face would tell the story without him even having to utter a word.

  Sophie glanced at the clock. Four and a half hours.

  She strode into the waiting room, and all three men looked up.

  “Hi.” She offered Jonah the soft drink. It was a caffeine-and-sugar-packed Dr Pepper, and she’d hoped it would perk him up, but he shook his head.

  “Everything all right?”

  The two agents, whose names she’d been given and promptly forgotten several hours ago, looked up at her silently.

  “It’s okay,” Jonah said. “You can tell her.”

  “Tell me what?”

  The younger of the two men cleared his throat. “We just got word from our evidence response team. They’re processing the crime scene now, which as you can imagine is quite extensive.”

  Sophie pictured a team of black-suited FBI agents swarming the deer lease like ants.

  “And you found the sniper?”

  “We did.”

  “Has he been IDed?”

  The agents exchanged looks, and seemed to decide she merited this bit of information.

  “Joe Shugart,” the designated spokesman said. “Also known as John Sharpe. We intend to confirm that through fingerprints.”

  “Assuming they’re on file,” Sophie said.

  “They are. He’s ex-military.”

  Sophie looked at Jonah, whose gaze was trained once again on those double doors. He wore a gray T-shirt with the sheriff’s department logo on it that some deputy had given him. He’d managed to clean some of the mud off in the restroom, but he still had streaks on his neck and arms—not to mention a slash on his left side that he’d refused to talk about as a nurse had bandaged him. Sophie would ask later.

  She made eye contact with the agent who wasn’t mute. “How did he find us at the deer lease? I was told no one knew we were there.”

  “I led him right to you.”

  Her startled gaze met Jonah’s. “What?”

  “We found a GPS tracking device,” the agent informed her. “On Detective Macon’s truck.” He looked at Jonah. “It was well-hidden, underneath the back axle.”

  Jonah raked his hand through his hair and looked away. She could tell he was torturing himself about this.

  “And he was acting alone?” Sophie asked, trying to change the subject. “What about the second set of keys?”

  “All the evidence we have tells us he was a lone operator. Those keys belong to a Dodge, possibly the one that ran you off the road the other day. We’ve got some agents looking for the vehicle right now.”

  Sophie looked at the two men, who’d been summoned out to this rural hospital on a holiday weekend. She imagined dozens more trekking around the deer lease.

  “A lot of agents on this thing,” she observed.

  “Sharpe has been on an FBI watch list for years.” This was the first she’d h
eard from the silent agent.

  “A watch list?”

  “Suspected ties to governments hostile to the United States,” he elaborated. “If he weren’t dead right now, he’d probably be looking at treason charges.”

  The doors whooshed open behind her, and Jonah jumped to his feet. He was in front of the doctor in two strides. The man wore blue scrubs and had a surgical mask hanging around his neck. He was much shorter than Jonah, but he put a hand on Jonah’s shoulder and guided him to a nearby row of chairs.

  Sophie’s heart squeezed.

  Jonah watched the doctor, nodding. His face froze. He sank like a stone into the chair behind him.

  Sophie clamped a hand over her mouth as the doctor walked away and disappeared back through the doors. Jonah rested his elbows on his knees and bowed his head.

  Sophie crossed the waiting room and stood beside him. He didn’t move. She kneeled down.

  “Jonah?”

  He glanced up, and the stricken look on his face tore her heart out.

  “Is he …?”

  He nodded. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “He made it.” His shoulders sagged forward and he heaved a sob. “He’s going to be okay.”

  Jonah didn’t talk the whole way home. He didn’t think he could. Every time he started to say something, his throat closed up and it felt like a sandbag was pressing down on his chest.

  He’d almost lost his dad today.

  He’d almost had his head blown off.

  He’d almost lost Sophie.

  For the first time since he’d become a police officer, he’d fired his weapon in the line of duty, and he’d killed a man.

  And although the last thing was the most permanent, it was the least disturbing thing that had happened, and Jonah knew he wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it.

  The rest was another story.

  “Do you mind if I stay with you?”

  He looked at Sophie, beside him in the rental car.

  “I still don’t have a key to my apartment,” she said. “And even if I did, I don’t have transportation, so …”

  He stared at her.

  “But if you’d rather be alone, I understand.”

  “No.” Jonah trained his gaze on the highway. Shit, he was so distracted, he’d nearly missed his exit. He flipped on the blinker and skated across three lanes of traffic.

  “No, you don’t want to be alone? Or no, you don’t want me to stay?”

  Jonah pulled off the interstate and rolled to a stop at the light.

  “Yes, I want you to stay.”

  They drove in silence the rest of the way to his house. Jonah reached for the automatic garage-door opener, only to discover it wasn’t clipped to the visor. It was back in his pickup, where it belonged, but that truck was still out at the lease or maybe at some FBI lab by now being examined for evidence.

  Jonah didn’t know.

  He didn’t particularly care.

  He only cared about one thing at the moment, and she was sitting beside him.

  He parked in the driveway, got out, and waited for Sophie to come around. She wore his dusty barn jacket over the thin scrub top the hospital had given her to replace her T-shirt. She had blood and dirt under her nails. Glass in her hair. A pistol grip poking out of her jacket pocket. He remembered the steely look in her eye when she’d pointed that gun at him. She was brave and strong, a one-woman SWAT team, and his heart turned over just looking at her.

  He took her hand and led her inside.

  Jonah’s house was cold, and she stood in the dimness, shivering as he locked the door behind them and turned on the porch light. He must have left the air-conditioning on, and they’d been gone for days. How many days? She counted backward and couldn’t believe it when she came up with five.

  Time was a blur. Her brain felt muddled. She didn’t even know how late it was, just that it was dark and she was beyond tired. She knew Jonah was, too.

  He took her hand and led her down the hallway, straight into the bathroom. She stood beside the sink while he flipped on the light and turned on the shower.

  He closed the door and the room started to fill with steam. She stood there, facing the sink and her reflection as Jonah eased up behind her. He reached around her and plugged the sink drain, not saying a word as he gently tipped her head forward and started picking through her hair. He dropped little chunks of glass in the basin and she stared down at them. A few of the chunks had blood on them, and she realized they were responsible for the tiny cuts along her cheek and jaw. When there was a little mound of glass in the sink, Jonah’s arms came around her and unzipped the jacket, sliding it off her shoulders. She undressed, noticing how her neck and arms were covered with brown dabs of disinfectant from where they’d cleaned her up at the hospital.

  Jonah swiped back the shower curtain. He took her arm and helped her over the side of the tub. The curtain closed again and she tilted her head back and let the hot water sluice over her hair. The curtain scraped back again and she felt Jonah climb in with her, completely disregarding the bandage on his side. He turned her around and reached for the shampoo. Then his hands were in her hair, lathering it and combing through.

  “Careful,” she said.

  He turned her around again, and she leaned back and rinsed. She stood for a few minutes, eyes closed, under the scalding spray, as Jonah moved around, soaping himself. Then he took her shoulders and eased around her.

  She stared down at her feet. The water was brown and sudsy as it swirled down the drain. He’d really coated on the mud out there, and she remembered how wild he’d looked when he’d come up on her in the pickup. She’d hardly recognized him, and she’d almost pulled the trigger. Just thinking about it made her want to throw up.

  He turned off the water. The curtain scraped back again, and he held her arm as she stepped out. He pulled a towel off the rack and used it to squeeze water from the ends of her hair. Then he wiped her down, head to toe. As he crouched at her feet, she rested her hand on his head.

  He stood up. He gazed down at her, and she couldn’t read his face. She couldn’t read anything about him now, hadn’t been able to all day. Was he sad? Was he worried about his father, still recovering in that hospital? Was he angry at her for getting them both involved in this?

  Did he feel numb, like she did?

  She leaned her forehead against his sternum, right above his heart. She brought her hand up and traced the damp bandage on his right side.

  A nick, he’d called it.

  “Are you going to tell me about the knife?” She gazed up at him.

  “Later.”

  He opened the door and let the steam escape. Then he scooped her into his arms and carried her to bed.

  •••

  Allison sank into the chair and blew on her coffee. It had been a bitch of a day, and it wasn’t even over yet.

  Ric Santos collected his change from the airport coffee vendor and joined her at the table.

  “Trade places with me,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because if he gets a look at you, he’ll bolt.”

  Allison got to her feet and surrendered the chair facing the terminal. Ric plunked his coffee on the table and sat down.

  “I heard about your Good Cop bit.”

  Allison sat back, defensive. “I got the information, didn’t I?”

  “Won’t hear me complaining.” The side of Ric’s mouth twitched up. “Just remind me never to piss you off.”

  Allison turned to the side and watched the security checkpoint in her peripheral vision. Any moment now, they were expecting Maxwell to pass by on his way to Gate 11, where the last plane to Seattle was departing in fifty minutes. The judge who’d released him on bond on the obstruction-of-justice charges had made him surrender his passport, but Allison had believed he was still a flight risk, so when the FBI got involved, she took advantage of their enviable computer access to look up outbound flight reservations for any Ryan Maxwells. />
  They’d come up with a hit.

  “The feds have been doing some digging,” Ric said. “Turns out our boy’s got money problems.”

  She snorted. “Who doesn’t?”

  “These are the big kind. D-Systems lost its largest client six months ago, and they’re scrambling for cash. Company’s way in the red. Maxwell personally has a two-million-dollar mortgage that’s about to balloon on him and he’s close to broke.”

  Allison thought about the artwork and the infinity pool. “Just goes to show,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  Ric sipped his coffee and looked at her. Then his gaze veered behind her. “How ‘bout this guy?”

  Allison glanced subtly at the mouth of the security line, where passengers stopped to put on shoes after going through X-ray. A guy slipping into a pair of Nikes had Maxwell’s build, but he was traveling with a woman and two kids. Allison studied him carefully.

  “Not him.”

  “Kids could be a decoy.”

  “Nope.”

  Allison sipped her latte. It was going to keep her up all night, which was what she needed. She had a crapload of reports to do for this case, and it wasn’t as if she had a personal life to get back to on this holiday weekend. So, hey, why not work?

  A man stepped through the X-ray machine and stopped to collect a backpack and slip on a pair of Teva sandals. Five-foot-eight. Baseball cap. Goatee.

  “This could be him,” she said.

  He was wearing a flannel shirt in July.

  “It’s him.” Allison turned to Ric.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Ric dialed his brother. “Rey? Yeah we’re here at the coffee shop. He just cleared security.” Pause. “Positive.”

  He clicked off and Allison sat there, waiting. “You okay?”

  She shrugged. “A little nervous.”

  “Worried you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not.”

  Ric’s gaze flicked over her shoulder. “Okay, here we go.”