Page 71 of Wyoming Cowboy Undercover

Self-defense was one thing, but taking the life of an unconscious man wasn’t how he operated. Not now. Not ever.

He shoved out of the truck. The air was dank and thick with the smell of gasoline from the shattered Molotov cocktails that had been in the back. But there were plenty more in the other trucks.

Shouts and hollering came from the hillside above. Voices and footfalls were moving downhill. Mac’s men were racing to help him. They were drawing nearer. Getting close. Too darned close, way too fast.

On a surge of adrenaline, he cut through the trees, moving laterally, away from the crash. He stuffed the 9 mm in the back of his waistband and kept hold of the submachine gun.

His heart hammered. With each frantic, hurried step he took, he cursed Marshall McCoy and the depth of his betrayal.

Once he made it several yards west, he veered north. Going uphill. Circling back toward the vehicles that had stopped to help.

Branches slapped his face. He climbed upward. Shoving off trees for leverage. He licked his lips in desperation.Faster.He needed to move faster. Sweat ran down his spine. His shoulder hurt like hell. The air was thin, and his lungs were on fire.

Hurry, hurry!

He scrabbled up the hillside. Running. Trying to stay low in the trees, to keep his footsteps stealthy as he hurried. Determination propelled him forward.

Drawing close to the road above him, he stopped and strained to listen. At first there was only the pounding of his heartbeat like a drum in his ears. He swiped at the moisture in his eyes and drew in a long, calming breath.

There.

The scuffle of boots on asphalt. Two voices.

Concentrate. Focus.He needed to be sure.

A third person coughed. There were three men. One had probably stayed behind with each truck.

He crept up higher to a tree just off the road and rolled across the back of the trunk, taking a position where he could see them. Standing at an angle, his bladed body presenting a narrower target, he peeked out.

They were farther back on the road. All three men were peering over the edge, their focus on the wreckage down the hill.

Rocco had gauged correctly and was only a few feet from the front bumper of the first truck. But he’d never make it to the door, much less inside the vehicle before they spotted him.

A bullet bit into the tree trunk near his head, forcing him to duck. The gunfire had come from downhill. Some of the guys must have tracked him.

He rolled out from behind the tree, taking aim at the men on the road as he rose onto a knee.

A quick squeeze on the hairpin trigger. Four bullets popped off with arat-a-tat-tat.

Two men dropped, screaming and clutching their thighs. The third one managed to sidestep out of sight.

Rocco aimed for the tires of the second truck. Fired a shot, flattening the front tire. He did the same with the third vehicle. Squeezing off more rounds to force the third guy to stay concealed, he bolted for the driver’s side door and hopped in the truck.

In their haste to help Cormac, they’d left the keys in the ignition with the engine running. He threw the gear in Drive and sped off.

Gunshots rang out behind him. He prayed none would hit any of the explosives in the back.

Pop! Pop!

The rear windshield exploded. Rocco flinched, lowering his head. Flooring the gas, he took the bend in the road as fast as he dared.

He flicked a glance in the rearview mirror. All clear. But he didn’t ease off the accelerator. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket, turned it on, and waited for it to power up.

As soon as he got a signal, he called Nash Garner and told him everything.

Chapter Eighteen

The padlock outside her bedroom door rattled. The shackle clicked, unhinging and metal clanged as the lock was removed from the hasp.

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