Page 9 of Mountain Hero

They were going to set fire to the store.

I’m not sure why they stopped, or if they’re still here, intent on finishing their plan.

But it’s not happening.

My pulse throbs as I move back toward the hallway and the four unopened doors. If I find the person responsible for this…

I make quick work of the closets and bathroom, not that I was expecting anyone to be in there. My gut is telling me the person responsible for this is gone—interrupted, or perhaps warned.

Still. They could be in the office.

Whoever did this could be in there, possibly with a gun.

So I’m as cautious as I would be on any mission. I open the door silently and push it open while jerking my body to the side, keeping out of the way in case a shot fires.

When nothing happens, I move into the small office, gun at the ready, bracing myself for a possible attack.

Still, nothing.

A quick scan of the room shows it empty.

But then.

I catch a hint of something.

Not an unpleasant scent, but something soft. Feminine.

Could the intruder be a woman?

Could she be hiding under the desk? Holding a weapon? Waiting for me to turn my back and then?—

I move closer to the desk.

A cool calm sweeps over me; the same one that comes at the critical part of every mission. It’s devoid of emotion. All I feel is a single-minded focus. Find the enemy. Neutralize the threat.

A second later, the calm shatters.

It’s a woman, but she’s not a threat.

I yank my phone out and turn on the flashlight.

The woman is crumpled on the floor, her limbs splayed out like a rag doll’s. A large goose-egg is rising on her forehead, already turning a livid red. She’s unconscious—her lashes a dark sweep against pale cheeks.

Is she unconscious? Or is she…

Lightly pressing my fingers to her neck, I can feel the steady thrum of her pulse. On closer inspection, I can see the rise and fall of her chest. So she’s alive, hopefully not too badly hurt, but until she wakes up there’s no way to know for sure.

Glancing around her prone body, there doesn’t appear to be a weapon.

Could she have one hidden in her clothing? Possibly. But I don’t think so.

Logic tells me she could still be the enemy. That I shouldn’t engage, keep my gun trained on her, and wait for the police to arrive.

But instinct is telling me she’s hurt. She’s a woman, a small and fragile-looking one at that, and she’s injured. Instinct demands I take care of her.

My gut says she’s no threat, so I go with it. Gently touching her shoulder, I pitch my voice low and ask, “Can you hear me? I’m not going to hurt you. Can you open your eyes? Talk to me?”

I repeat it as worry builds inside me. My stomach knots.

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