Page 150 of Gunner

I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1, what’s—”

“This is Chief Witter. I’m under fire at a residence and need backup.”

Not waiting for a response, I fired off the address and lay flat on my stomach. Bullets ripped through the couch. I dropped the phone on the floor and crawled on my hands and knees toward the exit. At the end of the couch, I waited until the fire ceased. Rising to a crouch, I squeezed the trigger several times toward the patio and dashed out of the living room, dove into the hall, right into a man wearing a ski mask. A bullet slammed into my chest, the impact absorbed by the Kevlar I had on. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I shot him twice. The bullets ripped through his chest, flinging him back. He crashed to the floor, his leg twitching.

The front door wasn’t an option. I hauled ass toward the staircase and pounded up them. The firing had ceased, but they were out there still waiting. If only I knew how many. I couldn’t fire wildly, or I would be out of ammo before backup arrived.

At the top of the stairs, I flung open the first door on the right. A scan showed no windows in the bedroom. I ran to the second, and relief flooded through me. I slammed the door shut andlocked it. One second could make a lot of difference in staying alive.

Gripping my gun tightly, I inched over to the window. Back flat against the wall, I peeked outside. Three motorcycles were parked in the yard. My stomach sank as wild thoughts raced through my head. Were they Blood Hounds? Were they after me because of Gunner, or were they involved in this mess after all? Could Gunner have lied to me about everything?

Confused, I sank down to the floor, back against the wall with my gun aimed at the door.

I’m not going down without a fight.

Rapid bursts of gunshots echoed downstairs. My heart hammered as I held my breath and waited for death. I was in deep shit, alone, outnumbered, and only god knew if the cops would even come. I wasn’t the favorite on their list.

A fist pounded on the door. I squeezed the trigger, not caring who was on the opposite side.

“Motherfucker!” growled a familiar voice. “Chief, if that’s you, hold your goddamn fire. I’m not about to die saving your life.”

Saving my life?

“Saint?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Let me in.”

I bit my bottom lip and scrambled to my feet. A part of me was relieved to hear a familiar voice, and another part was still running on adrenaline and an instinct not to trust anyone.

“How did you get here?” I asked.

“We’ve been keeping tabs on you,” he said.

And that’s supposed to get me to open the door?

“Look, Gunner asked us to keep an eye on you, since he couldn’t do it.”

A likely story, but was it true? I ran my fingers through my hair.

If I made the wrong choice, I could be as dead as I was certain Ronald was downstairs.

No, I trusted Gunner. But I couldn’t trust his men. Or could I?

“What happened to the shooters?” I asked.

“They’re all dead. Are you coming out or what?”

I inhaled deeply. Was I making the biggest mistake of my life? I tiptoed to the door and slowly opened it.

39

GUNNER

Last night I had the dream again where all three of us were together, but it was different. Gunner was making love to Ben. I could feel myself present, watching them, but I couldn't touch them. What does this dream mean?

I’ve never been one to show weakness, but sitting in this cold, stark cell, I felt as if the walls were closing in on me. Ben had asked me to give him twenty-four hours. It had sounded easy enough, but one hour in lockup reminded me why I liked the open road. I did not do well with confinement.

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