Tribal Law. Jenna Kernan

that the pile of something beside the open door was most definitely a body, possibly two. He radioed for backup, shouting the code for a shooting and the location. Then he hit the brakes and turned the wheel so his SUV formed a barrier between him and the riflemen.

      “Police. Drop your weapons,” he shouted.

      The gunmen spun and raised their weapons at the same time the truck door swung open, sending the masked man staggering forward. Selena, evening the odds, he realized.

      Gabe fired at the other man, taking him down. Selena now stood on the gate with a tire iron in her hand. He couldn’t shoot the second gunman without possibly hitting her. The second shooter recovered his footing and his grip on his rifle. Selena swung the iron down, hitting the barrel of his rifle so that it dropped. The shooter grabbed Selena by her long, loose hair, dragging her down. The tire iron clattered to the pavement as Selena fell against her captor.

      “Let her go,” ordered Gabe.

      “He has a pistol,” shouted Selena.

      Her masked gunman gave her a shake and she gripped the hand that threaded into her hair with both of hers.

      “Drop your gun or I kill her,” said her captor.

      “Jason Leekela, you let me go before your brother finds out about this!”

      Gabe knew Jason. He had arrested him more than once for possession.

      “Let her go, Jason.”

      But he didn’t. Instead he reached in his pocket and drew the pistol she had warned him about. Selena kicked at him. Jason staggered and Selena fell hard to her knees giving Gabe a clear shot. Jason lifted the pistol toward Gabe. Gabe fired.

      Jason Leekela fell.

      He landed facedown. Selena scuttled backward like a crab as Gabe came forward at a run. Selena sat on the icy road, knees drawn up to her chest.

      Thank God she was safe, because he was going to kill her.

      She was on her feet an instant later, throwing herself into his arms, burying her face in his coat. The familiar pull of attraction flared as her scent rose up in the icy air, like springtime in January. Still lavender, he realized. The scent was so familiar and still intoxicating, making him ache down low and deep. He drew her in, allowing himself one more full breath and the pleasure of having her arms around him again. In one hand he held Selena. In the other he held his gun.

      He tried to pull her away, but she clung.

      “Selena. You have to let go.”

      She did. Stepping back, her cheeks wet with tears. “I’m sorry.”

      That wasn’t going to do it. He had a sinking feeling that she’d crossed a line from which he couldn’t rescue her. He swallowed the lump that rose as he looked down at her forlorn, beautiful face. Why couldn’t he get over her? Why?

      “Who is up front?” he asked.

      “My dad and Matt Dryer. He shot Dryer and hit Dad really hard with his gun stock.”

      “Dryer? The guy from DOC?”

      Selena nodded. He ordered her to stand back by his vehicle, knowing he should cuff her, search her for weapons. But Gabe just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he retrieved the rifles and locked them in the rear of his unit. Then he returned to the gunman.

      His pulse check told him he’d just killed two men. He glanced back at Selena who watched with wide eyes as she twisted one hand with the other.

      “Dead,” he reported and then went to check on Dryer and Dosela.

      Frasco had struggled to a sitting position. He had a gash across the top of his head, sending a steady stream of blood down his forehead. He blinked up at Gabe and wiped his eyes. Dryer lay facedown in broken glass.

      He pointed at Frasco. “You armed?”

      “No, sir,” said Frasco.

      “Step back.”

      Frasco struggled to his feet, using the door to steady himself.

      “On the ground,” Gabe ordered Frasco. “Facedown. Don’t move until I tell you.”

      Frasco stretched out, using his arms to keep his head off the pavement. Gabe hated to do this to her father, but it was that or frisk and cuff him.

      “How’d you find us?” asked Frasco.

      “You were spotted on Route 60. Then I saw the tracks on the turn.”

      If not for the fresh snow, he might have missed them and Selena might be dead. That thought made him cold all over. Gabe moved to check Dryer.

      “What happened to him?” asked Gabe, motioning to the DOC officer.

      “They shot him in the chest is what.”

      Gabe did a visual and saw no wound. Then he opened Dryer’s jacket and tore open his shirt, sending buttons flying in all directions. What he found next surprised him. Dryer had been wearing body armor and the shot that should have killed him had been stopped by the vest.

      Dryer groaned and his eyes fluttered open. Gabe had never caught a bullet in his vest, but understood it hurt like hell. Dryer winced. Gabe couldn’t tell if he was fully conscious.

      Gabe got right to the point. “Mr. Dryer. Frasco Dosela. You are both under arrest.”

      “That’s what you think,” mumbled Frasco. Then it almost sounded as if he laughed.

      Gabe could not believe he was arresting Frasco Dosela again and on the day of his early release. He knew that his next arrest would likely be Selena and his heart squeezed in pain. This was the second time she had put him in this kind of position.

       Chapter Five

      His second in command, Detective Randall Juris, was the first on the scene followed closely by Gabe’s youngest brother, Kino. Both ran without lights or sirens.

      Juris pulled to a stop and exited his unit with gun drawn.

      “Clear,” said Gabe, and Juris holstered his weapon.

      The detective paused at the rear of the truck and massaged his neck with one hand as he regarded the two dead bodies. Then he glanced to Gabe. Juris was in his midforties and had worked as an extra in several Western movies. His rugged good looks and classic Indian features had softened with age and the expansion of his middle, so he now seemed a little too top-heavy to ride a horse. As a detective, he no longer wore the gray shirt and charcoal trousers of a patrolman. Today he was in jeans, boots and a fleece-lined denim jacket.

      “Where you want me?” he asked.

      “Take him.” He motioned toward Frasco Dosela.

      Juris ordered the bleeding, older Dosela up and he made it to the front fender of the box truck unassisted. Juris searched him, cuffed Dosela’s hands before him and led him to the detective’s unit. Juris retrieved a towel from his trunk and offered it to Dosela with a warning.

      “Don’t bleed on my upholstery,” he cautioned, as he put him in the backseat.

      Dosela pressed the towel to his bleeding head with both hands.

      Kino left his unit and stopped beside Selena. Kino was nine years Gabe’s junior, newly married to a Salt River woman and was a two-year veteran of the force, so he still wore the patrolman’s uniform, including the charcoal-gray jacket that had the tribal seal on one shoulder and the police patch on the other. Unlike Gabe, Kino wore his hair long and tied back with red cloth as an homage to their ancestry. But they shared above-average size, athletic frames and a calling to serve their people through law enforcement. Kino’s ready smile was absent today as he looked to his chief for direction.

      “Keep an eye on this one,” Gabe motioned