Silent Night Suspect. Sharee Stover

warned, moving in front of her.

      “Hey, I need—”

      “Not now,” he hissed. Weapon poised, Slade peered around the oxidized hood and spoke into his shoulder mic. “Shooters still on the premises.” The speaker remained muted because it didn’t matter what the dispatcher said. They had to get out of here—and fast.

      Where was his backup? Slade angled past the bales and crept toward the entrance. Asia started to follow, but he halted her with his hand. He peeked through the crack between the door and the frame. Figures moved inside the bedroom. How many were there?

      “At least Nevil Quenten is dead.” The man’s booming voice made him easy to distinguish.

      “Excellent,” the first replied. “Where’re the cop and woman?”

      Slade stiffened. What had Asia gotten herself into?

      “They got away. You need shooting lessons. All that damage and you still didn’t kill them.”

      Asia shifted behind him and a hollow ting resounded in the small shed. Slade jerked as the offending noisemaker rolled to his feet. A hubcap.

      “Quiet! I heard something,” the voice outside demanded.

      Slade moved to where Asia stood near the hood and bales. He pinned her with a glare. She shrugged and mouthed “Sorry.” Tugging her down, he crouched with her behind the metal barrier. He strained to hear the men’s conversation.

      “There’s nothing out there. I told you, they escaped,” the other argued.

      “No. I see a shed. That’s where they are.”

      Within seconds, the crunching of boots on snow drew closer.

      Slade surveyed the confined space again, searching for a way out. They were trapped.

      The steps paused outside the shed.

       Please, God, get backup here. Fast!

      “Knock, knock.” The man’s taunts were followed by two quick raps on the door.

      Slade held his breath, gun at the ready and heart drumming in his ears. He might be able to outshoot them, but were there more intruders in the vehicle? If he missed, and Asia was hit... No, he’d have to be dead on target.

      A rat skittered over Slade’s boot, and he flinched, nearly squeezing the trigger. The rodent scurried out of the opening, evoking a curse from the intruder.

      “Aw, what’s the matter? Scared of the dark or the little mouse?” The second man roared with laughter. His voice echoed, confirming he was farther away.

      “It’s not funny. Rats carry disease,” the first whined.

      Footsteps drew closer. “Move, so I can look inside.”

      “Forget it. I’ll take care of them from here.”

      Slade interpreted the warning and shoved Asia to the cement floor, covering her with his body. Bullets pinged all around them in rapid succession. The hood and the bale suffered the brunt of the attack, spitting shards of straw like confetti at a parade.

      At last, the rain of fire stopped. Asia’s staccato panting lingered, but to her credit, she never uttered a sound.

      Slade lifted his head and pressed his fingers against his lips, reminding Asia to keep quiet. She nodded. Slade shifted into a crouch while considering the number of bullets in his magazine. Were there enough for him to blast their way free of the shed?

      “Let’s see if you win the prize.” The door creaked, and the intruder’s hand grasped the metal.

      Slade aimed, prepared to fire. He’d have to take his chances and pray he hit his target the first time.

      And then he paused at the beautiful scream of sirens in the distance.

       TWO

      “One of those blue-and-red-flashing beasts better be an ambulance,” Slade murmured.

      Sound carried over miles in the flatlands of Nebraska. Only a few minutes had passed since the men had fled at the wail of the approaching emergency vehicles. Each rendition acted like a tornado siren, warning time was running out to get Asia talking.

      Slade knelt beside her. The uneven rotting boards of the pockmarked trailer’s porch steps dug into his knees, and the cold pierced through his long-sleeved uniform shirt. At least Asia hadn’t balked at wearing his patrol-issued coat. He’d draped it over her shoulders and kept his hand on her back to maintain pressure against the bullet’s exit wound. Concern flowed through him at the soaked material. She was losing blood at an excessive rate, and his internal frustration boiled over at her silence.

      Asia leaned against the paint-chipped railing, applying another gauze compress to the front of her shoulder. She’d given his mumbled declaration a second-long glance but had remained mute.

      He sat and made one final plea to her stubborn denial. “I want to help you.”

      “I know.” She shifted and met his gaze with a softened expression. “The cavalry is almost here. You’d better put on the handcuffs.” Asia held out her wrists, wincing with the movement.

      “Don’t worry about them. Focus on staying awake and keeping pressure on the wound.” Slade gently returned her hand over the injury, noting the smoothness of her skin. His attention shifted to the dark red stain mixed with streaks of grease and dirt marring her white blouse. The grime did nothing to distract from her beauty. Her shoulder-length hair hung in disheveled, shadowy rivers, framing her oval face and dark eyes.

      “I’m fine,” she rasped.

      “You’ve always been a terrible actor.”

      The corners of Asia’s lips tugged upward, then fell away as her eyes fluttered closed.

      “No sleeping for you,” he prodded. If she had a concussion, she had to stay awake.

      “I’m fine,” Asia repeated, righting herself and backing from his touch. Her shoulders slumped and seemed to bear the weight of the world.

      Slade concentrated on the flashing lights, fighting the desire to remove her burdens. She couldn’t be guilty. The internal policy and procedure manual played like background music in his brain, battling with concern for her well-being. “Do you remember anything else?”

      Dumb question since he’d already asked her the same thing a hundred different ways, but he had to help her. He owed it to Zander—and to Asia. “Maybe you recall being attacked? Or waking in a trunk?”

      The briefest hint of a smile broke through her downcast expression. “You watch too many television shows.” She shook her head, then glanced down. “You’re doing your job, and I need to follow the rules. I won’t fight.”

      Rumbling engines barreled down the snow-packed gravel driveway. Slade recognized his sergeant’s patrol car—the twin of his own pre-bullet-ridden vehicle—leading the pack with Slade’s brother Trooper Trey Jackson’s white K9 pickup following closely behind. Two brown sedans with sheriff county logos and an ambulance joined the entourage.

      “Are you able to walk?” Slade offered his hand. “Otherwise, I’ll carry you to the ambulance.”

      Asia straightened as if he’d cattle prodded her. “You’re not carrying me anywhere.” She grasped hold of the railing and pulled herself up. Her obstinacy rivaled any mule.

      Slade started to touch the small of her back, then thought better of it. “Just stay by my side and let me do the talking.” For once, she didn’t argue, and they walked toward Sergeant Oliver’s vehicle.

      “Jackson! What’s going on?” Oliver yelled, clambering out of the attractive low-profile Charger. The twenty-pound