by Janie Crouch
He needed to go to a florist. To get flowers.
For the date of doom tonight.
He grimaced, waving his hand in apology as horns blasted all around him at his insane driving antics.
The last two days had been hell. He’d been relegated to desk duty at work to allow him time to heal. Fortunately the SWAT team hadn’t been sent out on any missions, but Ashton hated missing the training and physical exercise. He needed it. Needed some sort of outlet for the tension running through him.
Waking up with Summer cuddled against him on the couch on Wednesday had not been hell—the opposite in fact—despite the aches in his body.
All his good intentions had almost flown out the window right then, looking at her delicate form pressed up against his. It had only been Chloe waking up and starting her sweet jabbering in her crib that had stopped him.
A good thing, too. At the very least Summer needed to know he worked for Omega Sector before they became intimate.
If they became intimate.
Ashton was hoping she would laugh it off, that he would be able to explain how he’d meant to tell her but couldn’t figure out how. How he really hadn’t minded helping fix anything—glad to use the skills he’d developed growing up on the farm. And that it gave him an excuse to see her.
He would’ve used just about any excuse to see her.
Hopefully just explaining that he worked for Omega Sector and that was how he knew Joe Matarazzo—her friend and landlord who had introduced them—would be enough. Ashton would mention SWAT if he had to. And maybe even the burning warehouse when Omega had been on the scene and gotten her out.
But he prayed she didn’t bring up any questions about her husband’s death.
He would just blow up that bridge—and probably himself—when he got to it. He pulled into the parking lot of the florist, resisting the urge to beat his head against the steering wheel.
Right now, flowers. Something to smooth the way. He laughed when he looked over and saw the actual name of the shop.
The Blooming Idiot.
He was definitely in the right place.
Maybe a huge beautiful bouquet would help ease the jagged path Ashton would be walking tonight. He wasn’t sure what type of flowers to buy. Hell, he didn’t know much about flowers at all besides the obvious. He sat for a minute trying to think of what Summer might like, then gave up. He’d have to ask the florist for help.
Since it was so big, he’d parked his truck a little farther away even though there were closer spots. Ashton glanced around as he walked. He felt like someone was watching him.
But there was no reason to think that—nobody he knew would think to find him here. Not to mention almost taking out a half dozen cars as he’d made his psychotic U-turn had definitely gotten rid of anyone tailing him.
Still, Ashton had been living with his gut feelings for long enough to know not to ignore them. He crouched to the ground with the appearance of tying his shoe. It gave him the opportunity to look around without seeming like he was studying anything.
Nothing.
Maybe he was just jumpy about tonight. About the conversation he’d be having with Summer. Maybe he just hadn’t gotten the exercise over the past few days his body was accustomed to. Too much energy. Too much frustration. Ashton stood and walked the rest of the way into the florist.
He was no less jumpy in here.
Petals of all shapes and sizes assailed him. How the hell was he supposed to pick something Summer would like?
The manager, an African-American man in his late forties whose name tag said Marcel, finally took pity on him after a few minutes. He walked over and slapped Ashton gently on the shoulder, his uninjured one thankfully. “Don’t worry, whatever it is you’ve done or you’re about to do, we’ve got the right flowers to cover it.”
Ashton tried to smile, but he was sure it didn’t come across correctly on his face. “I’m going out with a woman for the first time tonight.”
“So something simple.” Marcel tapped a finger against his lips. “Maybe a daisy or two. Less is usually more for a first date.”
Ashton gritted his teeth and nodded, sighing audibly.
“Okay, that face tells me there’s more to the story than just going on a first date.”
Ashton decided to just jump right in. “I’ve basically been lying to her for the past seven months. She thinks I’m someone I’m not.”
“More than daisies, then.” Marcel chuckled and pulled him toward the roses. “How big are these lies you’ve been telling?”
Ashton rubbed his eyes. “Pretty big.”
“Have you considered the Louis Vuitton store?”
“What?” Was that a different florist?
Marcel chuckled again. “Never mind. C’mon, I’ll get you set up with something that will hopefully give your date something else to think about besides what a lying bastard you are.”
Ashton grimaced. That was going to take an awful lot of flowers.
Marcel made a beautiful bouquet, Ashton had to admit. It wasn’t roses—possibly the only flower he would’ve been able to identify. Instead, the bouquet was made of lilies, artistically arranged to look stunning but not overwhelming.
The flowers were lovely and full of life, just like Summer. Ashton told Marcel that.
“You be sure to tell your lady friend you think she’s lovely and full of life. That will go a long way toward whatever news you need to tell her that’s so bad.”
Ashton paid and made his way out the door toward his truck. He heard the bells on the shop’s door ring and Marcel’s voice call out.
“Be sure to keep those out of the sun until tonight. Won’t do you any good to bring her wilted flowers along with your lies.”
Ashton chuckled and spun back to give the older man a smart-aleck response.
An action which saved Ashton’s life.
The flowers in his hand—right where his chest had been a second before—exploded into a thousand pieces of brightly colored petal confetti. A second shot flew over his shoulder and into the window of the shop, shattering the glass.
Ashton had pulled his Glock before the glass finished breaking and scurried back to the cover the tires of his truck provided.
“Marcel, get inside,” he yelled.
The man’s eyes were wide in his face. He stood motionless.
“Marcel, inside now!” Ashton yelled again.
It took the older man a second to process what Ashton was saying before he ran back through the door.
“Call the police!” Ashton yelled after him.
He turned around and peeked over the bed of his truck, only to immediately duck back to the ground as another bullet came spinning for him. He let out the vilest curse he knew when the next two shots took out the back and side windows of his truck.
The shots were coming from an office building across the street. Whoever it was had a relatively high-powered rifle—probably a .308 Winchester—and was fairly skilled in its use.
Fortunately not highly skilled or Ashton would now be lying dead in The Blooming Idiot’s parking lot.
And thankfully he’d parked his truck on the far side of the lot so the gunman had to shoot while he was walking rather than picking Ashton off as he stopped and unlocked the door to his vehicle.
He got his cell phone out of his pocket and called the first Omega number he came to: Roman’s.
“Calling me for advice about your date, Fitzy?”
More shots rang out. Ashton could see people in a parking lot down the street trying to figure out what was going on.
Ashton didn’t waste time. “Roman, I’ve got some asshole shooting at me from a building across the street.” He gave the address. “Nobody is injured, but the guy has me pinned down behind my truck.”<
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He could hear Roman running, yelling to the other members of the SWAT team.
“Are you out in the open?”
“I’m okay for now as long as he’s working alone.” If the gunman had a partner who was in the process of making his way to this side of the building, Ashton was in trouble. “But there are civilians all over the place.”
“Alright, we’ve already got locals on their way to you. ETA four minutes. We’re five minutes behind them.”
Another shot rang out, creating a grinding sound as it hit the metal of Ashton’s truck. “You guys hurry.” He disconnected.
Other people were starting to realize what was happening. Panicked cries came from farther away. Ashton tried to move from behind his truck, but a volley of shots rang out.
There was no way he was getting out from behind this vehicle.
Damn it, he had one more call to make and all the lies he’d told over the past few months dictated he do it right now before the sirens of local law enforcement arrived.
Hunkered down behind his truck, looking at the destroyed flowers he would’ve been giving Summer in a few hours, he called her.
“Hey, Summer, it’s Ashton.” He tried to keep his voice light.
“Hi. I didn’t expect to hear from you this afternoon. Everything okay?”
“Well, actually, unfortunately something has come up. Something at work. I need to see if we can reschedule.”
Silence met him from the other end. Damn it.
“Summer—”
A set of shots rang out and another one of his truck windows blasted out, blowing glass near him. The gunman was obviously trying to get Ashton to leave the cover of the vehicle. He cringed. There was no way Summer hadn’t heard the window breaking.
“What was that?” she asked.
“The work thing I was telling you about. Another window just broke.” The gunman was also firing into the florist shop. Ashton needed to return fire, he couldn’t take a chance on Marcel getting hit. But he didn’t want to take a chance on Summer hearing the gunfire.
“Summer, can you hang on? I have to put you on hold for just a sec.” Ashton didn’t wait for an answer, just pressed the mute button, raised his head over the edge of the truck and fired four rounds based on where he estimated the shooter was coming from—the roof of the three-story office building across the street.
Hopefully, Ashton’s return fire would pin the gunman down for a few minutes.
“Marcel?” he called out. “You okay in there? Hurt?”
“No. But that bastard shot out my window!”
“Just stay back, okay? Police are on their way.”
Ashton pressed unmute. “Sorry. I’m back.” Although his voice was calm, another piece of glass from the shop fell to the ground making a loud shattering noise. He grimaced. “Things are a little chaotic here.”
“I can tell. I thought you were just making the whole work situation problem up. That you had just changed your mind.”
“No, no, I promise I would be there if I could.” He heard the sirens begin to ease their way up the street. In another thirty seconds, they’d be unmistakably blaring. He tried to keep his voice as conversational as possible. “Can I call you tomorrow and we’ll work out another time to go out?”
“Are you sure that’s what you want, Ashton?”
He could hear the hurt in her voice and wished he had time to reassure her the way he wanted to. “I’m very sure.”
That was all he could give her. All the secrets he’d kept from her were now racing toward him in the form of sirens. If he’d been honest from the beginning, he could’ve been honest now.
“I’m sorry, Summer.” Ashton disconnected the call, cursing. But for now he had to push Summer out of his mind. He needed to make sure Marcel and the other civilians weren’t hurt.
The guy was firing at the shop again. Ashton leaned from the back of the bed this time and fired again, hoping to pin the man down, or at least draw fire back to the truck. But he’d now used nine of his fifteen-round magazine.
A few seconds later, the bullets flew toward the truck again, which was what Ashton wanted, although he still grimaced at every hit the truck took.
He smelled it before he saw it, but he saw it close afterward. Gasoline. The shooter had punctured the truck’s large gas tank and it was leaking everywhere.
A well-aimed shot would in essence make the truck a giant explosive.
The local squad cars had arrived and were now causing chaos in the street between the shop and the shooter. Ashton knew he had to take a chance and leave the cover of the truck.
“Marcel, stay inside, as far back as you can,” he yelled.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s punctured my gas tank. It’ll blow if he hits it right. I’ve got to get away from the truck.”
Ashton didn’t waste any more time talking. He pushed away from the truck and began a random weaving pattern as he ran. To anyone else it would look like he was drunk, but Ashton knew firsthand that a target weaving in and out with no discernible pattern was more difficult to hit.
Or at least kill.
Ashton would have to take his chances.
Shots didn’t fire out at him but he heard them hitting the truck.
The gunman had decided to aim for the stationary target. And hit it.
Ashton dove for the minimal cover of an air-conditioning box on the side of the building. He felt heat sear over him as all the gasoline in his truck caught fire and blew up in a cloud of deadly flames.
He stayed down against the unit for a few more seconds before peeking around. His truck was burning, barreling smoke into the air. It at least provided cover.
Ashton made his way around the side of the building, where the shooter hopefully wouldn’t be looking, and crossed the street. He kept his Glock low at his side so he blended in with the other people standing around staring at the brouhaha in the florist parking lot.
Ashton knew the shooter would still be on the roof of the office building and moved directly for it without running, in case the shooter was still waiting for a chance to pick him off. He knew he should make himself known to the local law enforcement, but there wasn’t time.
He put his Glock back in the hidden waist holster of his jeans. If someone saw it and got hysterical that wouldn’t end well for him.
Roman and Derek’s vehicle came tearing into the office parking lot just as Ashton got there.
“You okay?” Roman asked.
Ashton nodded. “Shooter has to be up on the roof. It’s the only place he had a clear vantage point.”
“You two head up there,” Derek told them. “The rest of the team and I will help the locals. Keep everyone from becoming any more panicked.”
People poured out of the building, being evacuated due to the fire and shots. Roman and Ashton made eye contact. They both knew the shooter could be walking right by them and they wouldn’t know it.
They fought their way up the stairs through the swarms going down. As they reached the roof access, Ashton signaled to Roman. He would take the lead.
Roman threw the door open, gun in hand and pointing toward the most visible area. Ashton took two steps around him, Glock held with both hands at shoulder height, ready for anyone who might be waiting.
It didn’t take them long to realize the roof was clear. On the side closest to the florist lay a .308 Winchester, leaning against the roof’s ledge. Dozens of shell casings surrounded it.
But the shooter was gone.
Chapter Eight
Monday morning the SWAT team met in one of the Critical Response Division conference rooms. They’d gone over what had happened on Friday night at the florist. Thankfully no one had been hurt, although there’d been some pretty extensive pro
perty damage.
Ashton’s truck was a total loss. Marcel’s Blooming Idiot would be closed for quite some time.
But right now they were studying a picture on the screen of Curtis Harper. Twenty-nine-year-old son of George Harper.
Brandon Han and Jon Hatton, two of Omega’s top profilers, searched through the files. Most of the SWAT team remembered what had happened with George Harper four years ago without having to look at the file.
Derek pointed to the picture. “Harper Sr. was the genius who tried to rob a jewelry store, then took four people hostage when the plan went south. He killed one hostage before Ashton took him out via sniper rifle.”
Everyone around the table murmured their agreement. They all remembered. The girl who died had been a part-time college student. Nineteen years old.
“Ashton’s kill was deemed a clean shot,” Lillian pointed out. “Internally and by an external review board.”
Derek nodded. “That’s correct. No one is calling the case into question. Except evidently George’s son, Curtis Harper.” He pointed to the picture again.
Jon Hatton closed the file he’d been studying. “Harper’s fingerprint was found at the crime scene. He wiped down the rifle he used, but evidently he touched one of the shell casings. We also caught him on camera inside the office building.”
Ashton stood up, unable to sit any longer. “So he, what, followed me to the florist and set up shop across the street?”
Brandon shrugged. “He might have been waiting for an opportunity for days or weeks and this happened to be it.”
Ashton scrubbed a hand over his face. “George Harper has been dead for four years. Why would his son want to get revenge on me now? That doesn’t make any sense.”
Murmurs of agreement floated around the room. “We’re not sure,” Brandon replied. “We’re going to see what we can find out about him and do a full profile.”
“He’ll have gone to ground now.” Ashton leaned against the wall, studying the man’s picture. “Every law enforcement agency in Colorado is looking for him. He won’t just be wandering around.”
