Page 52 of Easton’s Claim

“Yeah. Shot came from the west, I think,” Easton answered.

Wyatt cursed and the door banged shut.

“Get down and stay low,” Easton said to her, his quiet voice cutting through the panic inside her. With his back to the wall he began inching his way toward the rear door of the barn.

She wanted to tell him to stop, to stay here with her, but she was afraid to call out in case it drew the shooter’s attention. Instead she pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed 911.

Her throat was so tight she could barely speak when the operator answered, her breaths coming in gasps as she relayed the address and what was happening. She told the woman that Easton and Jamie were both armed DEA agents, and that she didn’t know how many shooters were out there.

As she spoke, Jamie and Wyatt appeared from behind the far side of the house, and raced over the open ground between the house and the cabin. Mr. C stood on the end of the porch holding a pistol in his left hand, and he wasn’t backing down.

A scream built in her throat as more shots ripped through the tense silence, this time coming from a different direction.

Oh my God, they’ve surrounded us.

Her heart moved back down her throat when Mr. C stepped off the porch, unhurt, and rushed toward the barn as fast as his bad leg would allow. Leaving the shelter and protection of the house to come to their aid.

“They’re still shooting at us,” she told the operator, her voice tight with fear. A horse snorted in its stall. “From at least two different directions—west and south.”

The woman told her to stay on the line to keep her informed. “Okay,” Piper whispered, her gaze glued to Easton. Beyond the open doorway, darkness covered the pastures and the forest. So many good, concealed positions for a shooter to wait.

“Piper,run!”

A streak of terror hit her at the desperation in that familiar voice. Seconds later she watched in horror as Greg appeared out of nowhere, racing toward her across the pasture. Before he’d made it halfway, he cried out and fell, the report of a rifle echoing through the darkness.

Oh Christ, they got him.“No!” She took a lurching step toward the open door but Mr. C’s gravelly voice stopped her cold.

“Stay put. Easton will get him,” he ordered from the front of the barn.

Heart in her throat, she stayed where she was and told the operator to send an ambulance, watching helplessly as Easton raced out into the darkness across the pasture. Greg was crumpled in a ball on the ground, groaning. His weak voice carried to her as he tried to raise a hand and wave Easton off.

“N-no. They’re…coming,” he wheezed out.

Easton kept running. The crack of a rifle sounded from somewhere behind him in the woods. Piper’s heart shot into her throat, her gaze glued to Easton.They missed. He’s okay.

Easton raced flat out across the pasture and Piper held her breath. A few seconds later he reached Greg, grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up across his shoulders. Greg’s scream of agony pierced the night, making tears prick her eyes.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as Easton raced back toward the barn, using the fence and shrubbery as concealment. More cracks from the rifle echoed in the stillness. He ran past her into the barn and went straight to the closest stall, lying Greg on his back on a pile of straw.

Piper grabbed a flashlight hanging on the wall and rushed after him. She switched it on, aimed it at them and held back a gasp as Easton peeled Greg’s bloody hands away from his middle to reveal the bullet hole there. Blood pumped out of the wound, dark and glistening in the beam of light.

She dropped to her knees beside Greg. He forced his eyes open, squinted against the sudden light. “Greg.”

He struggled to focus on her, his eyes so full of fear and pain it tore at her insides. “Piper.”

“I’m here. I’m right here,” she told him, grabbing one of his blood-slick hands and holding it tight. She held the flashlight steady as Easton went to grab a first aid kit from the workbench near the front door.

Greg bared his teeth and let out a horrible cry, then shook his head slightly and grimaced, his deep blue gaze locked on hers. One of the horses stomped its foot and snorted nervously. “R-run,” he said, voice urgent as he tried to push her away.

“No, I’m going to help you. Easton and I.” She set down the flashlight, aiming it at his belly. Then she stripped off the flannel shirt she wore, leaving her in an undershirt, and wadded it up before pressing it to his wound with both hands. Hard.

He yelled, his entire body jerking against the pain, but there was no escape. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I have to keep pressure on it.” He was sweating, shaking.

She cupped the side of his scruffy, beaten face. My God, what those animals had done to him. “Greg, you have to lie still. The police are on the way, and an ambulance. They’ll be here in just a few minutes, okay? You have to hang on.” Seeing him suffering this way was awful.

He shook his head, as if he knew he was dying. “You have…to run. You’re not safe here,” he wheezed.

“I’m not leaving. We’re pinned down.”

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