Page 118 of Beat of Love
“Son?”
Rafferty took a precious moment to meet the concerned brown gaze. “I’m sorry, Pa, but I think trouble has followed me.”
“Then you’d better do what you need to.”
He popped the bolt up with a firm flick of his wrist and drew it back. The bolt slid like glass, a whisper of steel on steel. The chamber was empty.
He tilted the rifle, peering down into the internal magazine. Brass winked back at him. One, two, three, four. He wished it were ten. He’d have to make every shot count.
He slid the bolt forward, felt the click as a round slipped into the chamber, then locked it down.
“Faster,” Rafferty urged as he unstrapped and twisted in the seat. He dropped to his knees onto the bench, found the latch on the rear cab window, and slid it open with a grunt. Dust and wind came in fast. He braced the rifle on the sill, eyes narrowing behind the scope. The crosshairs wavered over the Escalade’s grille. He locked his gaze on the target, knowing the canyon switchback was just up ahead. This was his last clear shot before the curve swallowed them whole. It had to be now.
He exhaled slow. Steady.
The Chevy lurched; his finger squeezed the trigger.
The shot glanced off the bumper of his target instead of puncturing the grille.
And it spurred his pursuers on instead of warning them off.
He rode the recoil, shoulder tight, already moving. He snapped the bolt up, yanked it back — spent brass flew. He jammed the bolt forward, chambering the next round with a sharp shove, then locked it down.
A quick glance behind him showed the blacktop stretching ahead, shimmering with heat. His father’s knuckles were white on the steering. They were almost at the hairpin.
Rafferty turned back to take aim.
They never reached the turn. The Escalade had gained distance in those few seconds and clipped the side of the Chevy’s rear bumper, sending the truck into a spin. Pa had enough skill to correct this, to safely come out of it, but unfortunately the front wheel hit the edge of the paved road.
The truck flipped.
When Rafferty came to, he was sprawled in the bed of the truck. The bright Texas sky burned above him. He blinked, once, twice, then winced as pain flared behind his eyes — a hot, pounding throb like the worst hangover of his life. His handfound the source. When he pulled it back, his fingers were wet with blood.
He reached for the side of the truck and hauled himself to his knees. “Pa!”
And found himself staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.
The man holding the gun stepped closer, a silhouette against the sun, his shadow falling across Rafferty’s bloodied face. His voice cut through the dust, sharp and cold, laced with a heavy Irish accent.
“Off the truck. Now. Into the Escalade.”
Rafferty’s breath caught. He looked past the gun, toward the crumpled cab of the Chevy.
“My father—” he croaked.
“Not your problem,” the man said, tone flat as a shovel blade. “Move.”
“He’s got nothing to do with our business,” Rafferty protested, voice raw with panic.
The gun didn’t waver. The Irishman just smiled — tight and joyless. “He does now.”
A second man appeared, circling the truck like a wolf joining the pack. “We know where your family is,” he said. His voice was another heavy Irish drawl, darker. Utterly lethal. “Just think how they’d feel if our backup team paid them a visit. Today. While the house is full of mourners. Siobhan — barely widowed — clinging to her fatherless children. Your ma. Brother. Hmm. Your pretty little nieces would fetch a fair—”
“Stop,” Rafferty cried. That they knew names hit like a punch. “You’ve made your point.”
“Aye. Did you really think the O’Malley family wouldn’t come after yours?” the man sneered. “Sean might be rotting in prison, but his blood’s still walking free.” The man leaned in closer, breath hot against Rafferty’s ear. “And we won’thesitate. We’ll dump your father’s body right on the front porch. He’s barely alive now — but he’ll be dead by the time we reach Lawson’s Landing.”
The last thread of resistance drained from Rafferty.
