Page 167 of You Found Me

Shots rang out. Two missed, but a third burned a path of fire along Ward’s left thigh. He cried out in pain, stumbling to a stop.

“Ward!” Della screamed.

He managed to keep his feet under him. Barely. He let go of her before he took them both down. “Go. Get to the van.”

“Oh God, oh God. You’re shot!” She tugged on his arm. “I’m not leaving you. Come on! Come on!”

“You’re shot?” Spencer’s voice squeaked.

Another bullet zipped by.

Ward shoved Della toward the door. “Run!”

She hesitated.

He gritted his teeth. “I mean it. Go.Now. You’ll get us both killed.”

Della turned and limped toward the waiting van.

Ward drew his weapon and spun, putting himself between Della and the next bullet. It hit him square in the vest. It felt like being kicked in the chest by a rhino. The air whooshed out of his lungs, and he went down hard on his knees.

Hume stalked toward Ward, weapon tracking in front of him like a blind man with a cane. If he took another wild shot, he’d hit Della.

Ward rolled to the side to draw Hume’s attention away from his protectee. “You missed, asshole!”

Hume spun in Ward’s direction and fired three more times. Ward pressed himself flat to the concrete. The shots pinged off the wall behind him.

Della screamed.

Hume’s weapon swung back in her direction, and Ward fired two quick rounds, aimed at center mass.

Hume jerked. His eyes widened, then he crumpled to the ground. His gun clattered to the concrete.

He lay there, unmoving.

Ward waited, weapon ready.

One of the things he’d learned over the years as a Marine: never assume your target was down until you made damn sure they weren’t breathing.

Seconds ticked by, but Hume didn’t twitch.

“Target down,” he told Spencer.

“Thank fuck,” Spencer swore.

Ward managed a weak chuckle. “You’re swearing?”

“Fuck yeah. You’ve been shot. Yes. I’m fucking swearing. Stay still. I’m on my way.”

The spotlights flared to life, blinding Ward through the goggles. He pushed them off.

“Ward!” Della’s voice drew closer and then she collapsed to the ground beside him, her hands on his arm, his face.

“Careful. Your ankle,” he ground out.

“I don’t care about my ankle. You’re bleeding.” Her voice sounded rough and scratchy. Bruises had bloomed along her throat where Hume had choked her.

It was a good thing that fucker was dead.