Page 9 of Lock ’N’ Load

Fear twisted his gut as he watched her face, waiting for the meds to take effect. Fuck, he felt helpless.

More rustling from the tree line had him whipping out his gun again, resting his flashlight on top of the barrel. Sheba’s eyes glowed red in the high-powered beam. Panting, she sat at his side, sniffing Trista’s arm.

Sirens wailed in distance. Trista’s eyes were closed, and he noticed her glasses were gone. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She was getting more air now but might need another hit from the inhaler.

He holstered his gun, then cupped her cheek, which was cold and clammy. “Hang in there. An ambulance is on the way.”

When she began to shiver, he worried she was going into shock. Shifting on his knees, he encircled her in his arms, trying to transfer his warmth to her slim body. Resting his chin on the top of her head, he inhaled that same sweet flowery scent he’d detected that morning.

Sensing distress, Sheba lay down on the ground beside them.

The sirens grew louder, then red and blue lights lit up the parking lot and the trees. Police cars and an ambulance rolled in, grinding to a stop.

“Over here!” he shouted.

For a second, he had a vision of the other cops blasting him to kingdom come. He’d reported a woman being attacked, and here he was holding her tightly on the ground.

“Police, don’t shoot!” Matt called out as he maneuvered Trista so the badge on his shirt would be clearly visible.

Then she went limp in his arms. Matt placed his hand on her sternum, and his blood ran cold. She was barely breathing.

Correction: he didn’t think she was breathing at all.

Chapter Three

People yelling at her. Radios squawking. Trista took a shaky breath, and when she opened her eyes, she was nearly blinded by all the flashing red-and-blue strobes.

Emergency vehicles.

Something covered her mouth and nose. A mask. Make that an inhaler. Not hers, but a big one, the kind hospitals had used on her when she was a kid. A nebulizer. She struggled to remember what had happened, then it hit her. She’d had an asthma attack. A bad one, this time.

People standing and kneeling over her were blurry. My glasses. Where were they? When she tried raising her arm to find them, someone squeezed her hand.

“Hey, Trista,” a deep voice rumbled softly near her ear. “Welcome back. You scared the hell out of me.”

I know that voice.

“Sheba, lehni,” the same voice commanded.

Sgt. Connors. Beside him, his K-9 lay on the ground, panting, water dribbling from her muzzle.

What are they doing here? For that matter, where is here?

The Moose. Attacker. Knife.

She tensed, and her heart began beating faster. Her attacker was nowhere in sight, but Sgt. Connors was there. He’d come to her rescue. Relief flooded her, and her pulse slowed. No longer did her chest feel tight. No wheezing or coughing. The inhaler had done its job opening her airways. Struggling to rise to a sitting position, she realized she already was sitting. Had they propped her up against a tree?

As a child, when she’d had bad asthma attacks, the doctors would put her in a sitting position, making it easier to breathe. But this tree was moving, breathing, and she knew what it was.

Sgt. Connors’s broad chest.

The night air had chilled, but his breath against the top of her head was even warmer. Feeling self-conscious about his proximity, she struggled to rise, but his arms prevented her.

“Easy there. Let the paramedics do their thing.”

Having no other choice, she relaxed against his chest and it felt good. Warm. Solid. Protective.

“Respiration and pulse are back to normal.” A paramedic peeled off the Velcro blood pressure cuff on her arm. “Does your chest still feel tight?”