Page 41 of The Sniper

Three words, raw and desperate, hit me like a fist to the chest.

“I’m coming,” I said, no hesitation, no question.

I hung up, grabbed my keys from the bench, and turned to Ryker, who was eyeing me like he knew shit was about to hit.

“Find out what’s happened,” I barked, already heading for the door. “Tap the cops, anything in the area. Now.”

“On it,” he said, no bullshit, already pulling his own phone out.

I didn’t wait for more—bolted to my truck, feet pounding the hardwood, the dream’s heat replaced by a different fire.

Something was off, bad off, and every cell in me screamed to get to her.

I peeled out of Dominion Hall, tires screeching on asphalt, the engine roaring as I pushed it hard toward Mount Pleasant.

The sky was gray, heavy with clouds that looked ready to choke the sun, and it matched the weight settling in my chest.

I wasn’t halfway there when my phone rang again, buzzing against the dash.

Ryker.

I hit speaker, kept my eyes on the road. “What?”

“Shooting in Estill,” he said, voice tight. “Pastor. Last name Calhoun. He’s dead.”

My hands gripped the wheel until my knuckles whitened.

“They get the shooter?”

“No,” Ryker said. “Still looking.”

“Put everything on it,” I snapped. “Give the cops whatever they need—resources, intel, anything.”

Then I stopped, jaw clenching, rethinking it fast.

“No—scratch that. Keep the authorities out. Get me the info. I’ll handle it.”

Ryker didn’t argue—knew better. “Got it. Working it now.”

He hung up, and I floored the gas, the truck lurching as the speedometer climbed.

Estill. Her dad. A pastor named Calhoun, shot dead, and no one in custody.

My mind raced, piecing it together—her voice, that broken “I need you,” the grief I hadn’t heard yet but knew was coming.

Sex was the last thing on my mind now, burned out by the need to get to her, shield her, fix whatever the hell had shattered her world.

I tried to picture it—what she was thinking, feeling, locked in that little apartment with the weight of this crushing her.

Was she crying? Screaming? Staring at nothing, lost in that quiet way she had when shit got heavy?

I didn’t know—couldn’t know—and it gnawed at me, the not-knowing.

I’d seen grief before, carved it into men with my own hands, but her?

She was different.

Soft where I was hard, good where I was stained.

---