Page 91 of Crosshairs

“I’m good. Dad always said I had a hard head.”

He laughed. “You’re not driving to Jackson tonight, are you?”

“No. I’m still staying with him here in Natchez.” Sarah took the arm Linc offered and climbed off the back of the ambulance. “My car is parked out front,” she said.

He guided her around the house to the circle drive and spotted the green MINI Cooper.

“Thanks again.” She took the backpack and stashed it in the back seat.

“It was nothing. See you Wednesday.” He tried to make his tone light, and from the disappointment in her face, he had.

“Yeah, see you Wednesday. About eleven?”

He gave her a thumbs-up. A few minutes later he rounded the corner of the house. Someone had turned on floodlights, and Linc shaded his eyes as he searched for Ainsley. She was still talking to Pete near the stage, and both looked up when he approached.

“Did Rose check out okay?” he asked when he didn’t see her grandmother.

“Yes, but she was tired, and Kanesha suggested that she go home.”

“And she actually complied?”

“Tried to get me to go with her, but I wasn’t finished here.” Ainsley looked totally exhausted.

“How about you?” he asked. “Are you ready to leave now?”

“I might as well since I’ve gotten about all the information out of Pete I’m going to get.”

“I’ll email you a full report in the morning,” the chief replied and turned to Linc. “Before you go—the security officers gave me their version of what happened. I’d like to hear yours.”

Linc wanted to do anything other than relive the moments seared into his brain. If he’d just ... He focused on collecting his thoughts. “We were listening to the music, and J.R. waved Ainsley over. About halfway across the lawn, she motioned for me to come too. I was jogging to meet her when I got a feeling I get sometimes—you know, like when your neck tingles. I don’t know where it came from, just that something seemed off. I looked up toward the veranda. That’s when I saw the shooter.”

He clenched his hands as the thoughts he’d held at bay flooded his mind. If he’d had a gun, he could’ve taken the shooter out. This had to end. Tonight. No more being held a prisoner to his fear. No more being vulnerable to attack.

Ainsley could have died tonight, and if he’d been the man he should be, he could have prevented the attack. Even as he vowed to change, the thought of holding a gun soured his stomach.

“Can you describe the shooter?” Pete asked.

The image of someone draped in black surfaced. “The sun had gone down, but it wasn’t dark yet. Couldn’t tell his size because of what he wore. Looked like some kind of poncho with a hood.”

He glanced up at the second floor. “He was hunched over the rifle, right next to a big grill in the middle of the veranda, kindof blending with it. If I hadn’t been looking for something out of place, I doubt I would’ve noticed him.”

Pete looked up from his pad. “Sarah indicated he wore goggles.”

“I couldn’t see his face for the hood.”

“How about the rifle?”

When had he seen the rifle? “Everything was happening split-second and came together at one time. I don’t remember much about the gun, just the flash from the muzzle. I must have already thrown myself at Ainsley.”

She squeezed his hand. “You know, you ought to try out for the Saints.”

He stared at her. “Don’t joke about this.”

“It’s that or cry,” she said, rubbing her arms.

“If I’d had a gun—”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” she said softly.

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