Page 5 of Risk of a Lifetime
“If we give you the pickup truck, what do we get in return?” JB stood away from the wall, took a couple steps forward.
Marcy closed her eyes again. Not in a fearful way, JB realized, but so as not to distract him.
Leon tightened his grip on her. “That bank guy. I’ll give you the bank man.”
“Why not Marcy?” JB took a couple more steps. “She’s already outside.”
“No! She’s mine.” Leon jerked his gaze upward as if caught by a movement. “I’m gonna—”
A shot rang out. Leon’s body recoiled, and she lurched to the side as his hold released. She screamed as he crumbled.
“Who fired that shot?” Gun drawn, JB vaulted over the hood of the patrol car and raced toward her. “Hold your fire.”
She turned to him, and a second shot echoed through the air. A cry of anguish escaped her mouth as a bright red trickle snaked down her arm where the bullet had grazed her. His back to the line of fire, JB caught her before her legs bent and cradled her in his arms. He knelt, shielding her with his body. Her head flung back, and her eyes went half-lidded. Was she reacting to the sight of her own blood or a wound he hadn’t seen?
He clutched her hand. “I’m here, sugar. Hold on.”
She responded with a soft press of her fingers.
Another bullet clipped through the air. Ricocheted off the concrete. Crashed through his shoulder. Her body sagged, wilted.
“Marcy? Marcy!”
He felt like the shots were directed at them instead of Leon. Why? The force of his fear for her grabbed his heart and shoved it into his throat. He scanned the area for a safe, quick path to a barrier. Nothing. Moving was not an option.
What had he heard? Silencer. What had he seen? Nothing so far. Of course, the silencer could lower the flash. This wasn’t the police taking shots. This was a sniper. The rifle scope might be off, or the guy might be nervous shooting in such a confined area, or maybe this was his first job as a hired gun, but there was one thing for sure—the guy was a damn pro.
Who in this sleepy, little town had that kind of training except for the police? And, him?
Who?
Chapter Two
Phone shoved against his ear, JB paced around the commandeered office of Dr. Crowley at Our Lady of the Lake Medical Center while speaking to his boss Kenneth Wilson at the FBI’s Regional Office in Kansas City.
The paramedics had brought the three victims of the shooting here. Thankfully, Marcy’s injuries were mild compared to what might have happened. No bullet wound—she’d been hit by a few chunks of pavement. She was somewhere down the hall being prepped for exploratory surgery on her shoulder to make sure they got all the fragments out.
The bullet that had hit him had only grazed his shoulder, a flesh wound that had already been cleaned and stitched up.
“That’s what I said. No one from the sheriff’s office fired the shots that hit the robber or my ex-wife. Evidently, Leon’s made some enemies in town.” He didn’t half believe his statement, but until he had more proof, he wouldn’t bring up the possibility of a sniper. “The local police asked if I’d be available to help them out on a small task force to work through the bank robbery and shooting.”
He figured the frown on his boss’ face had just deepened. And, truth be known, he didn’t want to stay in town any longer than he had to.
“Afraid I can’t let you do that since you’re emotionally involved.” His boss sucked in air and cleared his throat on the release. “I’ll send Dwight Landon to work with them. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Yeah. We worked a drug bust in Springfield last year.” Even though JB’s main FBI office was located in Kansas City, Missouri, the satellite offices stretched from Garden Center, Kansas, to St. Joseph, Missouri, from Jefferson City to Springfield, Missouri.
Landon seemed okay, but the idea of someone else on his own Crayton turf didn’t sit well. Besides, the agent didn’t compare to his first FBI partner, Albert Jennings, whose death was still an open case. Leads might have faded, but to JB, that case would always be active.
He scrubbed his palm across his hair and glanced through the open doorway into the hall. Sadie Dawson, Marcy’s mom, leaned against the wall, staring at him as if he were the only person she could count on at the moment. He nodded. She nodded in return. Her fingers trembled when she moved them to cover her quivering chin.
Locals referred to Sadie as a resilient, stand-up broad. The tall, willow-thin woman with carrot-red hair would do anything for anybody in need, even the few in town who bad-mouthed her. Right now, she looked scared and needy herself.
A nurse approached her with a handful of papers and a pen. The women talked, then Sadie pointed at him. An uneasy feeling grabbed him as the two walked in the office and stopped. He could feel the hard ache at the involuntary clench of his jaw. He turned and moved to the window, then scanned the parking lot and the surrounding area.
“You still there?” his boss asked.
“Yeah. I don’t know about Landon. There may be a problem with him fitting in around here.”
