Beyond the Rules. Doranna Durgin

pussy-whipped.”

      “You’ve got help.” Kimmer assessed the semiautomatic, a gun made for a bigger shooter than she’d ever be. No surprise. “You just thought you were going to call the shots. Well, guess what? Wrong.” She slid out the door. Rio was already out and at the back, rummaging around. “Watch your feet,” she told him. “There’s broken glass up here.”

      “Got it. And got the tire iron. I’ll keep looking.”

      With little grace, Hank climbed down from the backseat and up into the driver’s side. With exaggerated care he began the long back-and-forth process of turning the SUV around.

      Kimmer took a few loping steps to the nearest tree, the maple with the tire swinging from a branch made just for that purpose. A lower branch on the other side acted as a step. She pulled herself up one-handed, climbing the easiest route to the branch from which the tire hung. From there she looked down on the road they’d just traversed. It passed almost directly beneath the tire before the hairpin turn that ended at the top of the hill. From there the area spread out before her—small farms and then the smaller tracts of her neighborhood in neat, topographically parallel streets.

      The pursuing sedan sat barely visible through the trees, not moving. With the grind of the Suburban swapping ends and gears in the small space behind her, Kimmer couldn’t hear anything of the men who’d been in the sedan, and she couldn’t yet see them.

      She waited. Her toes flexed on smooth maple bark, her fingers warmed the wood stock on the shotgun, and she waited, plastered up against the tree to put as much of herself behind the trunk as possible. Beneath her, Rio came to stand beside it—a second set of eyes. And Hank finally finished turning around and cut the engine.

      Blessed silence. And then in the roadside not far below them, a flock of kinglets exploded into noisy scolding, flittering from bush to bush like parts of a perpetual-motion machine. Kimmer rested the shotgun barrel on a tree branch and snugged it into place against her shoulder as Rio eased back behind the tree. She raised her voice to reach those slinking below. “That’s far enough.”

      The birds hopscotched away through the brush. An annoyed voice asked, “Who—what—the hell are you?”

      “I haven’t decided yet, but I’m still young,” Kimmer said airily. “Hank will tell you I’m a bitch, though, and I suppose that’s really all you need to know. Plus I bashed up your nice car. I also have you in my sights and this is double-ought buckshot, too. It’s gonna sting, boys. Where do you want I should aim it?”

      The reply came as something inarticulate and disbelieving, a strong Pittsburgh accent in play. Kimmer glanced down at Rio, who looked up with perfect timing to raise an eyebrow at her.

      “Hunter’s going to hate this,” Kimmer told him. “They really want us to play nice in their backyard.”

      “Look, sputzie,” said one of the BGs. “We only want the scrawny guy we followed here. There’s no need for you to get hurt.”

      “No need at all,” Kimmer agreed, hoping she heard the sound of small-town-cop sirens in the distance. Unless these suited goonboys took off across country on foot, they couldn’t leave this little section of Glenora without meeting the cops on the way out. And Kimmer would be on their tail…squeeze play. She saw a rustle of movement and carefully sighted a foot in front of it, squeezing the trigger of the twelve-gauge.

      The spring brush exploded in bits of leaves and twigs. Damn, that thing has a kick. But she’d been prepared and stayed firmly in position, braced between the spreading limbs. The goonboys scrambled wildly into the bushes, cursing copiously. Kimmer saw a glint of metal. “Here it comes.”

      A quick volley of shots from someone who obviously felt he had ammo to spare, and Kimmer ducked behind the tree trunk. She was sure they were out of pistol range, but even goonboys got lucky. They’d take turns laying down cover to dart up the side of the road, getting closer…maybe getting close enough.

      Rio knew it, too. “I’m going to draw them off,” he said. “I doubt I can get their interest more than once…better not waste it.”

      Blam! Blam!

      “Won’t,” Kimmer told him. Won’t waste anything.

      “What the hell?” Hank growled loudly from the SUV between gunshot volleys. “Don’t play games with these people, Kimmer! Just…do something!”

      Blamblamblam!

      “Nice,” Kimmer told him, her cheek still pressed against smooth bark. “You don’t even have the guts to say it. What is it you want me to do, Hank? Exactly?”

      Blam! Blamblamblam!

      “Whatever it takes!” Hank’s voice crept toward panic. “Just stop them!”

      Uh-huh.

      Blamblam—click!

      “Reload,” she said, but Rio was already away, running crouched just behind the crest of the hill and heading for another tree. He made a god-awful amount of noise and then took position behind the tree, holding the tire iron up to his shoulder so the sun glinted along its length.

      They took the bait. They turned toward him, revealing themselves to Kimmer, and as one BG slammed a new magazine home, the other raised his pistol at Rio.

      Kimmer aimed between them and took a deep breath. No turning back now. Once she drew blood, she’d be explaining herself to the local law; she’d also drag Hunter into the mess. From this distance the pellet spread meant she’d hit them both without truly damaging them. It wouldn’t end this confrontation unless they took it as the warning it was and withdrew.

      If only the cops were closer.

      But now it was more than Hank in trouble. Rio stood within their sights, drawing fire for her. Drawing it from Hank, who deserved no such sacrifice.

      Kimmer pulled the trigger.

      They both went down, tumbling away in surprise, losing ground downhill away from the road. Good. That bought some time for the cops to close in. Not much time, but—

      She and Rio startled in unison as the Suburban’s engine revved. Hank! That puny-assed—

      Rio reacted immediately, running for the vehicle with long strides, dirt sticking to his socks and the tire iron in hand. The SUV swung past him, building speed, and with a grunt of effort he managed to draw even to the open tailgate and fling himself into the back. For an instant Kimmer thought he’d bounce right out again, but he must have found something to grab on to; his feet disappeared inside.

      And that left Kimmer. Kimmer, sitting in a tree and staring stupidly at her stupid brother’s stupid break for it. So much for the plan to sandwich the BGs between Kimmer and the cops she’d so fervently hoped would arrive in time.

      No way in hell was she leaving Rio to take this one alone. Not when she had the only gun.

      Though maybe while he was bouncing around in the back, he’d find those shotgun shells they needed so sorely.

      The shotgun had a sling strap. She pushed the safety on and ducked through the strap, freeing her hands so she could climb swiftly out on the branch and then down the rope to the tire. She could just barely push off the side of the hill while crouching in the tire and she did it, swinging back closer to push harder, propelling herself into the open air over the road as the BGs struggled to pull themselves together, smarting and bleeding but still well-armed.

      And here came Hank, hauling the Suburban around the hairpin turn from the clearing, forced to slow down for the rutted section. Kimmer adjusted the arc of her swing, leaning to the side and pushing the tire around until she hung precariously out over nothing, high enough to see nothing but sky.

      Time to let go. And if her timing was off, to go splat.

      Kimmer landed with a painful klunk, denting the roof under the luggage rack. The shotgun smacked her in the back of the head, the metal smacked her bare feet and palms, and her forehead