Marked For Revenge. Valerie Hansen

the old homestead still provided plenty of cover for would-be assailants, as did the fallow, brushy fields. Soon, when some of the trees had shed more leaves, he’d be able to spot interlopers better.

      Breathing raggedly, he remained hunched behind the chunk of oak, waiting. Time slowed. He finally grimaced and accepted reality. “Get a grip, man. There’s no threat out there. Not even a hungry mosquito.” His cramped shoulders began to relax, his heart following. It was a good thing he was still in his early thirties, fit and healthy, because an older man might have had a coronary on the spot.

      “The chief was right. I do need a shrink.” Only he couldn’t go back to the city for treatment. Not yet. Not until his cop buddies figured out who had killed his former partner and if that attack had been due to error, the way Letty had insisted.

      Daniel stood and brushed off his jeans. Something glistened near the ground. A wire? That’s what had tripped him?

      Astounded, he peered at it. If his enemies had gotten close enough to string that wire, why hadn’t they attached a bomb to it or kept coming and killed him while he slept?

      Brandishing the ax, he braced himself. The air seemed choked with unseen threats, imagined dangers. In his mind he was once again tied hand and foot, lying helpless on a dirty concrete floor, gagged so tightly he could barely breathe, and waiting for his own death at the hands of the criminal gang he’d infiltrated.

      He recalled breaking loose and running blindly through the old warehouse on the outskirts of Springfield, finally emerging onto Battlefield Blvd.

      Every nerve in his body was screaming, Run again! He made a dash for the farmhouse, boots pounding up the porch steps.

      Just as he jerked the dilapidated screen door toward himself he heard a bang and a whine. A bullet slammed into his thigh, spinning him around. The force felt like he’d been hit with an armload of baseball bats.

      Daniel clambered to his feet and dove through the doorway, scrambling toward the table. Toward the disassembled .38.

      All he had to do was stay conscious long enough to put it back together. Judging by the blood pulsing from his wound, that might not be easy.

      * * *

      “How much farther?” EMT Kaitlin North called to the ambulance driver and paramedic, Vince Babcock. He switched off the siren. “It’s just up ahead.”

      “I think I see it.” A third member of their crew, Josh Metcalf, was pointing. “The place looks deserted but don’t let that fool you. Like I said, Vince and I were sent out here once before. This guy is a real nut case.”

      “Terrific.” Kaitlin kept bracing herself. The narrow, ungraded dirt roads that had brought them into the back country of the Ozarks were so rough her muscles already ached.

      Vince parked the ambulance with its rear doors facing the ramshackle house, then reported their arrival to dispatch. Josh grabbed his jump bag and went for the gurney. Kaitlin was right on his heels, her blond ponytail swinging.

      A sharp, loud noise stopped everything. Josh put on the brakes so fast Kaitlin crashed into him and almost took them both down. She keyed the mic clipped to her shoulder. “On scene. Shots fired. Repeat, shots fired.”

      “Copy that,” Belinda replied from the station. “You all okay out there?”

      “Affirmative.”

      “Okay. Hold short. Deputies are on the way.”

      Her partners seemed perfectly willing to wait. Kaitlin would have been, too, if she hadn’t spotted so much blood on the porch. Unfortunately, the front door was closed and plywood was nailed over the windows. “I’ll check around back,” she announced, racing for the side of the house.

      Vince was adamant. “No way, rookie. You heard our orders.”

      She had. But what good was loitering by their ambulance when somebody might be bleeding to death?

      “All I’m gonna do is look,” she called back.

      Rounding the second corner of the small, clapboard building, she was so startled to see someone coming toward her from the opposite side that she faltered, her blue eyes wide, her pulse racing. “Vince! You scared the daylights out of me.”

      “That was the idea,” he said harshly. “What if I’d been a guy with a gun?”

      Kaitlin flushed crimson. “Sorry. I never thought of that.”

      “Yeah, well, I did.” He hooked a thumb. “I found a window with a gap at the top of the boards back there. It’s too high off the ground for me to see in. Come on. I’ll give you a boost.”

      Following, she managed a wry smile. “How mad at me are you? We know the guy inside is armed. We heard him shoot.”

      “I don’t mean for you to stick your head through the hole.” He clasped his hands together to make a step for her. “Just take a quick look then back off.”

      Shaking from excitement as well as trepidation, Kaitlin put her boot in his hands, strained to grasp the top edge of the plywood and pulled herself up. The board creaked and groaned but held. A brief glance told her plenty.

      “There’s only one person in the room,” she reported. “He’s down and it looks like he’s unconscious. Hold on a sec.” Making a fist she rapped on the glass. The victim didn’t stir. “Yup. He’s out cold. I can’t tell if he’s breathing.”

      “You’re positive he’s alone?”

      “In this room, yes. Can’t tell about the rest of the house.”

      She felt herself being lowered and jumped clear. “Let’s go.”

      Vince was saying, “I’ll check on the ETA of the police,” as Kaitlin powered around the building. She never slowed going up the porch steps. A screen door hung off to the side like the broken wing of a bird. One swift kick with her boot and the front door popped open.

      She had enough good sense to fall back until she’d double-checked the scene. That took mere moments. The unconscious, injured man was as rugged-looking as her partners had reported but not a bit frightening or off-putting the way they’d said. Avoiding the red pool staining the bare floor, she dropped to her knees by the victim’s head, pushed back the collar of his plaid flannel shirt and felt for a carotid pulse.

      Smiling and gulping in breaths, she looked up and proudly announced, “He’s alive! We’re in time.”

      * * *

      Daniel wanted to speak, to warn his erstwhile rescuers that the shooter might still be out there, watching and waiting. His will was strong. His capabilities were not.

      Was that a woman’s voice? Letty? he wondered. No. This person sounded empathetic as well as professional. First responders must have understood his jumbled 911 call and found him. Given the remoteness of the homestead and the fact that he’d done his best to shun everyone since he’d arrived there, that was pretty amazing. Only once, after a passing hunter had reported an armed trespasser acting mentally unstable, had anybody from Paradise checked on him. After that mistaken diagnosis was corrected and the medics turned away, Daniel hadn’t been bothered again. Until today.

      His eyelids refused to rise. Male voices were issuing orders. Somebody was sticking a needle in his arm and taping it down while someone else slit the leg of his jeans to expose the injury site. A stethoscope touched his chest. He felt the leads of a defibrillator being stuck to his skin to record his heartbeats. His mind kept shouting, “Get me out of here!” yet his lips never moved. This felt like the kind of nightmare where you want to scream a warning but are unable to speak, no matter how hard you try.

      “I think we should stabilize and transport ASAP,” one of the men said. “He’s lost a lot of blood in spite of the tourniquet he made with his belt.”

       Yes! Do it! Take me away from here!

      “I