Page 70 of High Intensity

“Jonas took ’em back to the ranch as promised,” Junior answers Jillian’s question.

She took the back seat in the sheriff’s cruiser and insisted I take the front seat. Sloane is following behind in her cruiser as a precaution.

“Any updates on the guy I shot?”

The guy had a faint pulse, and we did our best to staunch the bleeding from the hole I put in his body until the EMTs finally arrived. I’d like to say I don’t give a flying fuck if he lives or dies—he was trying to harm Jillian—but I’d be lying.

I do care. I’d been forced to shoot a man in the line of duty once, and it was an experience I do not care to repeat. There is nothing redeeming about taking another man’s life, I don’t care how bad the man or how just the cause. I carry that man’s death like a dark stain on my soul.

I’m not looking to add another.

“He’s in surgery and I should be notified when he comes out,” Ewing informs me, glancing over. “For what it’s worth; from what we’ve put together, it was a justified shooting,” he adds.

I nod and grunt my appreciation.

“As for the other guy; Ira had the presence of mind to memorize the license plate. Bellinger was on that as soon as he got to the scene. I’m sure he’s gonna want to talk to you at some point, but for now he’s trying to chase down the second guy.” He glances over his shoulder at Jillian. “He also asked me to check whether you’d changed your mind about FBI protection.”

It’s quiet in the back seat, and I’m wondering if maybe what happened this afternoon did change her mind. I can’t really blame her if it did.

“Maybe you should think—” I start, but as I turn around, I catch sight of her angry face.

“No. Not even discussing that,” she says stubbornly. “It’s not an option.”

“Figured you’d say that,” Junior announces beside me, a smirk on his face. “Even told Bellinger as much.”

We’re about to pass the road to Jillian’s place, when we catch sight of flashing lights on the opposite side of the road up ahead, turning off toward Libby’s small regional airport.

Ewing immediately steps on the brakes and pulls off on the shoulder, stopping even with the turnoff. In the side mirror, I can see Sloane pulling up behind us.

“Unmarked. Feds?”

“Looks like it,” I confirm, counting three in total.

Typical dark SUVs with grill and dashboard lights.

The sheriff rolls down his window and gestures for Sloane to follow him. Then he waits for an opening in traffic, and cuts clear across the lanes, taking the exit toward the airport.

“What are you doing?”

Ewing darts a glance at me before returning his focus on the flashing lights up ahead.

“My wife works at the airport,” he clarifies.

I guess that would explain why he’s driving us into what could be a possible volatile situation. I glance over my shoulder at Jillian, who bulges her eyes at me. I shoot Ewing a pointed look and when the airport buildings come into view up ahead, he pulls the cruiser onto the shoulder.

“You guys wait here. I’ll leave the engine running; get yourselves out of here at the first sign of trouble,” he orders as he gets out of the vehicle.

I get out as well, in time to watch him jog over to Sloane’s cruiser stopped behind us, and get into the passenger side. As they speed off, I round the hood and get into the driver’s side.

“What is going on?” Jillian wants to know.

I lean over the steering wheel, peering at the cruiser’s taillights as it makes a left onto the airport grounds. Farther to the left, closer to the runway, I can see the flashing lights reflecting off the night sky. It doesn’t look like they are still moving, but it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not sure. We know they’re looking for the shooter and the vehicle, so it’s a pretty safe guess they have reason to believe he’s here somewhere. They may be looking for him in the hangars.”

Despite the cold night air, I roll down the window to see if I can hear anything, but it’s surprisingly quiet. I can’t see any movement either. I’m concentrating so hard on what might be happening outside, I almost have a heart attack when the radio crackles to life.

“Wolff, come in…”

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