Injustice For All

by Robin Caroll

  Her heart pumped blood through its chambers at record speed. The pressure in her eyes thumped in sync with her pounding heart. The only sound she could hear was the blood thudding in her eardrums.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  The one at the front of the house rammed against the door. Her heart faltered as she glimpsed a silhouette of a gun in his hand.

  She flinched.

  He used a pin-light, affording her a brief glimpse of the man at the front. A sliver of metal clutched in his hand, glistened against the burst of light. His gun shimmered again in the moonlight.

  Pinching her eyes shut, Bella willed herself to be strong . . . and her aim to be steady. For Daniel. For herself.

  I am come that they might have life.

  Her gaze darted around in the darkness. It wasn’t his voice she’d just heard. Whose? She shook her head. Her mind had played a trick on her.

  I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.

  She shook her head again. Now she was hearing things. Her mind failed to grasp reality as it unraveled, unnerving her. Couldn’t she get a break? Just one?

  The image of Hayden tiptoed across her mind. His firmness of faith. As quick as the flicker of light shooting across the room, a steadying calm pressed against her.

  God, is that You?

  She waited a moment. No one answered. It was official—she’d been scared out of her mind. Her eyes sought the figure at the front door.

  I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.

  She froze, then recognized the lead in her chest. She thought of this morning’s sermon—the prodigal son. She was the prodigal son. It was time to stop being childish. Stop holding grudges. She’d ignored justice for Daniel, so how could she be mad at God for not intervening against Hartlock and Devane? It was time to return to her Father.

  Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I’ve ignored You, hated You. I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me.

  Pounding at the front door. She steadied the barrel of the shotgun.

  More banging from the back of the house. Hartlock and Devane . . . they’d split up, dividing and conquering.

  She trembled.

  Dear God, help me.

  The front door crashed in with a thud.

  She fingered the trigger of the shotgun as she took aim.

  A boom sounded from her bedroom. Footsteps, running . . . behind her . . . coming to her. “She’s got you in sights!”

  She squeezed the trigger. Pain covered her left shoulder. Her eyes closed. The warm blanket of darkness wrapped around her.

  Rafe fired another shot at the armed figure on Bella’s porch.

  This time the silhouette slammed against the door. It turned, then raced into the house. Rafe gave chase, gun and flashlight in position, fairly certain he’d hit him. The gravel slowed him down as he raced to the porch steps. He steadied his footing, then entered the house.

  He shone his flashlight into the kitchen. Nothing. Into the living room.

  He froze.

  Bella lay sprawled on the floor. A shotgun sat beside her. Blood seeped out from under her body.

  Rafe’s body tensed until he ached.

  Training dictated he follow the shooter. He rushed into the master bedroom. He aimed his flashlight just in time to illuminate two figures hitting the woods.

  Ignoring his training Rafe rushed back to the living room. He shoved his handgun into his waistband, then knelt beside Bella, surveying her injury as best he could. She’d taken a shot to the left shoulder. He couldn’t be sure how bad she’d been hit with just the light from his flashlight.

  Oh, God, please help me.

  He yanked his cell from his hip and punched in 911. Quickly and concisely, he informed the dispatcher who he was and relayed the situation, adding in the request that Commissioner Simpson be notified immediately. He closed his cell and turned his attention back to Bella.

  A metallic smell permeated the room—blood. Bella’s blood. His gut clenched, nearly doubling him over. The blood still seeped from her shoulder. He’d taken emergency first aid during training, but it’d been a long time since he’d had to use any medical knowledge. He cast the flashlight’s beam around the room. What could he use for pressure to stop the bleeding? There—one of those lace things on the coffee table.

  He snatched it from the table, folded it, and then pressed it against the front of her shoulder, where the blood seemed to come from. Lord, please send help.

  Uncertainty washed over him, lasting for what seemed like forever.

  He pulled her into his lap, keeping pressure on her wound with one hand and cradling her head in the crook of his other arm.

  Rafe checked her pulse. Strong and steady. Should she be unconscious from a shot in the shoulder? He’d been shot in the gut and never lost consciousness. What if the bullet had gone downward and hit her heart?

  No, her pulse wouldn’t be so strong if she’d been hit in the heart.

  Sirens screeched against the night.

  Thank You, God. Get them here quickly. Please.

  Blinding lights flashed up the drive. The squall of the sirens was deafening. Rafe welcomed both. Thank You. Thank You.

  Simpson broke through the doorway first, gun in firing position. “Bella!”

  “Here, Simpson.” Rafe waved his flashlight toward the door. “She’s been hit.”

  “How bad?” Simpson didn’t wait for a response as he spouted directions to the paramedics. He grabbed Rafe and pulled him away as two EMTs rushed to Bella’s side.

  “I think it’s an in-and-out.” Rafe stared at her pale face under the artificial lights. He suddenly didn’t feel so hot. “I don’t know how much blood she lost.”

  “Get me some lights on in here. Check the breakers—box is in the kitchen pantry.” Simpson pulled him to the porch where officers huddled, awaiting instructions. “Tell me what happened.”

  The cold, fresh air cleared his mind. Rafe sucked it in, then let it out in a rush. “I heard a shotgun blast as I pulled up. From my headlights I saw a figure at the front door. He had a gun. I jumped out of the car and identified myself as an FBI officer, then fired my weapon.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “I don’t know. He ran into the house. I followed. Saw Bella unconscious on the floor. The intruder joined another, and they ran out the back of the house, into the woods.” He shivered.

  “Did you follow?”

  “No. I went back into the living room to evaluate Bella’s condition.”

  The house suddenly flooded with light.

  “Bob, you and the others go check out the woods.” Simpson nodded at the officers, then led Rafe back inside. “Did you recognize them?”

  He shook his head, his gut burning while his body felt like it’d been dunked in ice water. “I didn’t get a good look.”

  “Can you recall anything about them? Something?” Desperation clung to Simpson’s voice. “Anything?”

  Rafe searched his memory. There was something vaguely familiar about the figure at the door, but he couldn’t place what. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Excuse us.” The paramedics rolled the stretcher to the front door. Bella lay still, but she had color in her face, even if her lips were still paler than normal.

  “How bad?” Simpson asked.

  “It’s a clean one, Commissioner. Nothing major was hit that we can tell—no organs, no tissue damage.”

  “Then why was she unconscious?”

  “Shock. Fainted. She’ll be fine.”

  “Hayden,” she whispered, opening her eyes and holding out her hand.

  “Hey, you.” He leaned over and took her hand. “Felt like you needed a little excitement in your
life?”

  She probably wasn’t in the mood to see Rafe right now, so he took a step back, out of her line of vision.

  She gave the police commissioner a weak grin, then grimaced. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

  Simpson planted a kiss on her forehead, and Rafe had to clench his hands not to push him away from her.

  “Hay, it was them.” Her voice was weak but firm.

  “Are you positive? Did you see them?”

  “I’m sure. I saw him at the front door. It was Devane. And he doesn’t do a thing without Hartlock.”

  Rafe froze, sure he’d misheard her. He took a step forward, standing right behind Simpson.

  Bella’s gaze drew to him. Her eyes widened and fear danced in them. She looked back at Simpson. “Oh-my-stars. Why is he here?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “We are punished by our sins, not for them.”

  ELBERT HUBBARD

  “You got hit!” Lars closed the motel room’s drapes, his focus on Jack’s forearm. A stain of red grew into a large circle.

  Jack shucked off his coat and sweatshirt. The outer edge of his skin was gone, as if something had rubbed off the top layer. Something had: a bullet. A bullet fired by a fellow agent.

  “Let me look at it.” Lars removed his coat as well and reached for his partner’s arm. He inspected the area. “Just a graze. Nothing more.” He let out a sigh. “A bandage will cover it all.”

  “Stings like the dickens.” Jack wobbled on his feet.

  Lars grabbed the chair from the front table and moved it beside the lavatory. He eased Jack to sitting. “Once I get it cleaned up, you’ll be good as new.” They couldn’t stand for Jack to get an infection. That would prompt questions they couldn’t answer.

  “I can’t believe Rafe shot me.”

  “He didn’t know it was you, thank goodness. I’m just grateful he was far enough away that he couldn’t get a kill shot on you, buddy.” Lars cringed to think how he’d have cleaned up that mess.

  “I saw her go down. Good shot, Lars.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know how accurate I was. Everything happened so fast.” He saw her take aim at Jack, yelled . . . she shifted at the same time he fired . . . Rafe shot at the same time, clipping Jack. And then they’d run.

  Rafe hadn’t followed them. He defied the standard bureau training and had not given chase. It was a rookie mistake, but Baxter was no rookie. Why hadn’t he come after them? Had he recognized Jack? No, if he’d recognized him, he wouldn’t have shot him. Or would he?

  Lars finished cleaning the glorified brush burn, added a good slathering of antibiotic cream, then covered the wound with a sterile bandage. He shook two ibuprofen tablets out for Jack, then handed him a glass of tap water. “Take this. It’ll help with the soreness.”

  Jack did as told, as always. He made his way to his bed and sprawled on his back. “You can’t imagine how much this stings.”

  Lars gritted his teeth to keep the retort sitting on the tip of his tongue from being spoken. He’d been shot—really shot, where he had to have surgery—and hadn’t complained about the pain once. That was what made him strong. Made him an asset.

  Like his ability to follow orders. He’d been well compensated over the years to advise witnesses in certain cases. The special team’s conviction rate sat at the all-time highest ever: 98.7 percent. Now that the boss was poised to win the election, the benefits would continue to flow down.

  As long as Remington Wyatt didn’t resurface.

  Lars knew he’d hit her. He’d seen her slump to the floor. But where had he shot her? He’d been aiming for the heart, but he had to yell at Jack.

  Rafe would know. Lars needed to find out how much the new agent knew already. It was highly possible that he was as dangerous as Remington “Bella Miller” Wyatt. Even more, potentially.

  And if he was . . . well, that was bad luck for Rafe Baxter. But first Lars needed to know if he’d taken care of Remington for good.

  He had to have heard her wrong. “Did she say she recognized the man at the front door as Jack Devane? As in, FBI Agent Devane?” Rafe still couldn’t believe it. None of it made any sense. He either had to have heard wrong, or she’d been mistaken.

  Simpson shot him an incredulous look, shook his head, then motioned for one of the officers. “Bob, please get someone to the hospital pronto. I want a guard outside of Bella Miller’s room at all times. No one outside of medical staff and me is allowed in her room.” He glanced at Rafe. “No one, no matter what kind of badge he flashes. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man turned and hustled to a cruiser.

  Rafe crossed his arms. “I don’t understand—”

  Simpson held up a hand. “I’ll talk with you in a minute. For now, just hang tight.” He turned and directed various teams.

  The crime-scene unit arrived, following the directions of the commissioner as some entered the home while others tromped about in the back.

  An officer hesitated mere steps away from Simpson. He spied the man and waved him forward. “What is it?”

  “Sir, we found one shoe print in the dirt, but the wind is working against us.”

  “Get the CSU on it immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Simpson turned back to Rafe. “Are you positive you hit the man at the front door?”

  “I’m not 100 percent sure, but I think so. He jerked like he’d been hit.”

  Simpson lifted a radio to his mouth. “Bob, at the hospital, check out the emergency room for anyone with a gunshot wound.”

  Static crackled over the electronic device. “Yes, sir. Arriving now, just behind the ambulance.”

  “Copy that.” He glared at Rafe.

  “What?” Rafe didn’t like the man’s attitude toward him. “I don’t understand.”

  “Come with me.” Simpson led the way outside and to his cruiser. He pointed at the passenger side as he sat behind the steering wheel.

  Rafe shut the door behind him. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I’ll ask the questions here. This is my crime scene. It’s not your jurisdiction.” Simpson’s face was stone.

  The man was worried about Bella, that had to be why he came across so brazen to a federal officer. Rafe would let it slide . . . this time. He gave a curt nod.

  “What were you doing here tonight?”

  Rafe stared out into the darkness.

  “Agent Baxter, I asked why you were here. I expect an answer.”

  He glared at Simpson. “I’d been on a date with Bella and we had a . . . miscommunication. I came back to try to straighten it out.”

  “What was this miscommunication regarding?”

  He liked Simpson, he really did. Respected the local lawman. But Simpson’s probing wasn’t endearing him to Rafe.

  “Agent Baxter, I would strongly advise you to answer my questions now, or we’ll go to the station and you can call some uppity lawyer to be present for your questioning.”

  “You do remember I’m a federal officer, yes?”

  The muscles in Simpson’s jaw tightened. “I remember, but you were the first to arrive on a crime scene in which a woman was shot.” He rested his hand on the butt of his handgun. “And I’m beginning to wonder why you’re refusing to answer simple questions regarding your presence at my crime scene.”

  Rafe checked his anger. If the tables were turned, he’d be the same way. He let out a long breath. “Bella thought I’d used our date to pump her for information about the Tate case.”

  “Did you?”

  “Kind of. It wasn’t my intention per se, but the topic came up and I asked the questions. She got mad and demanded I take her home. I did. She didn’t give me a chance to apologize or explain when we got here. S
he stomped inside and turned off the porch light.”

  Simpson chuckled. Rafe shot him a scowl. Simpson cleared his throat. “Sorry. Typical Bella when she’s ticked. Go on.”

  “I got back to the motel and realized I’d really done nothing wrong. Sure, I shouldn’t have pushed while on a date, but I should’ve questioned her regarding her connection to my case before I agreed to go out with her on a social level.” Social level? How about falling-for-her involvement?

  “Her connection to your case?” Simpson didn’t miss a thing.

  How much to tell him? Sure, he was a police commissioner, but he also had personal ties to the case. What if Rafe had been wrong all along and Simpson was involved in Tate’s murder? He studied the man—his eyes were serious, his expression intense. No, Rafe hadn’t been wrong. Every bit of training, experience, and instinct assured him Simpson wasn’t involved. “Did you know Bella knew about Tate being your father before your mother told her?”

  “What? Perhaps you’re mistaken.” But Simpson didn’t look shocked. And he hadn’t answered the question.

  Just as sure as he was that Simpson wasn’t involved with Tate’s murder, Rafe knew this information wasn’t new to Simpson. “Wish I were, but I’m not.”

  “Who told you such nonsense?” Not a trace of surprise, just pure defensiveness. Or was that protectiveness?

  “Your mother.”

  The guilt on Simpson’s face lingered, settling in the crevices. He remained silent, but Rafe detected the awareness.

  “What, no comment to that, Commissioner Simpson? That just ties Bella Miller even tighter into my case. A photograph she took hung in Daniel Tate’s private study. She knew about your link to Tate before you did.” Rafe shifted in the seat. “I have to wonder, which is why I came back tonight . . . to question her. But I think you already know all the answers I’m seeking. You just haven’t shared.”

  “It’s not my place.” Simpson shook his head. “But you’re getting away from the subject at hand. You arrived here to talk with Bella. What did you see?”

  “I’ve already told you.” This was getting old. Simpson might have a crime scene on his hands, but so did Rafe. “Now, what isn’t your place to tell? I think it’s time you brought me up to speed on what you know about your father and Bella Miller.”