Cold Shot (20 page)

Only one other car sat in the dirt lot, the newer trailhead still not known by most, or they simply preferred the paved lot a quarter of a mile down the road. Either way Griffin wasn’t complaining. He liked having the place nearly to themselves.

The early evening air was crisp as he stepped from Declan’s vehicle, the sun already sinking in the pink-hued sky. Nothing like a brisk day for a brisk hike.

Declan tossed him a water bottle from his knapsack stashed in the rear of the Expedition and they set off on foot, leaves crunching beneath their boots as they entered the woods.

The Gunpowder River was swift and fairly high, thanks to the recent rain, the water rushing around and surging over rocks and boulders. They banked right at the first trail fork, heading up the steep incline, away from the road, the faint sound of cars disappearing in the distance, all worldly distractions diminishing with each step further up and further in.

He tracked them, careful to keep his distance, waiting for the right vantage point. They were absorbed in conversation, no doubt discussing what they’d found at the co-worker’s.

The co-worker.

He shook his head.

Who’d have figured?

The two friends wrapped around the switchback, heading for the upper falls.

Perfect.
He smiled.

The cascading water would help muffle the sound.

“You and Parker seem to be getting along well,” Declan said.

Every. Single. Time.

With a sharp inhale, Griffin offered his sternest scowl in reply, hoping Declan would leave it at that. And for a moment he did, but then came that soft shake of his head that signaled more was coming.

“At some point . . .” he said, rounding the large oak at the top of the rise.

Griffin balled his hands tight. “At some point, what?”

“Never mind. You’re right. Much better to spend your life punishing him right along with yourself.” Declan started down the winding narrow path toward the falls.

“That’s ridiculous.”

Declan glanced back over his shoulder. “Is it?”

“This conversation is over.”

“Wow.” He scoffed. “That’s a new one.”

“You’re in rare form today.”

Declan shrugged. “Just stating the obvious. This has gone on long enough.”

“How about we try something different?”

“Such as?”

“Shut it and walk.”

“And that’s different for you, how?” Declan smirked, pausing as they reached the river’s edge.

As Declan analyzed the best path of rocks to cross over, Griffin lifted his chin, toying with the idea of just dunking his smart-aleck behind straight in. “Ya gonna take all day, sunshine?”

“Somebody’s all riled up.” Declan took the first stride across.

What did he expect after making an off-the-cuff comment like that? Griffin wasn’t punishing Parker—at least not any more than he deserved.

Declan nearly slipped on the large rock in the middle, but caught himself.

“Nice balance.” Griff chuckled.

“I’m still standing, aren’t I?” Declan smiled smugly.

A shot pierced the air, echoing along the curve of the ravine.

Hunting season
.

Declan’s eyes widened. His hand clutched his shoulder as he fell back.

Griffin rushed forward.

A second report echoed as something blistering whizzed along his right ear. Lunging, he ducked into a sideways roll, drawing his weapon as he collided with a large rock square in the center of his back, his legs sloshing in the frigid water. Lurching his upper body forward, he steadied his arm and fired in the direction the shots had originated from.

Movement shifted through the trees.

He squinted.

A man raced up the ravine, trees sheltering him partially from view.

Turning, Griffin grasped for Declan.

Grabbing hold of his shirt, he yanked upward as Declan struggled for purchase on the slippery rocks. Struggling to shore, Griffin leaned him against a broad tree trunk, shielding him from the hill above.

He quickly assessed. Declan had been shot in the right shoulder, blood seeping through his soaked jacket.

“Go,” Declan said. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“He’s getting away. Go. I’ll call for backup.”

Griffin tossed him his phone and then sped up the hill, using trees for cover as he surveyed the terrain.

He spotted the man at ten o’clock, racing in the opposite direction at a fast clip.

The dimming sky shadowed him a time or two from Griffin’s sight.

Griffin increased his pace, rushing around trees, bobbing as the man spotted him and fired, the bullet wedging in the trunk mere centimeters from his head.

The man was a good shot. Better than good.

Pressing flush against a tree, Griffin forced his breath to steady. Leaning around, he sighted in, tracked the man, and fired.

The man staggered.

He fired again.

The man’s knees buckled, and he dropped to them. Clutching his chest, he swayed, then slumped fully onto his side.

With weapon drawn, Griffin rushed to stand over him. He’d hit him twice in the chest, but he was still breathing and conscious.

Good. Because he wanted answers.

Declan lay on the stretcher in the first of two ambulances to arrive on scene. Griffin, along with the paramedics and two state troopers, had carried both men out of the woods and back to the trailhead lot.

Griffin climbed in the rear of the ambulance with Declan, his heart thudding. He’d lost too many . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t lose Declan.

Please, Father, give the doctor skilled hands. Don’t take Declan away. I can’t lose another . . .

He exhaled a shaky breath.

Please, Father. Not again.

“We’ve managed to stop the bleeding, at least externally,” the paramedic said, “but we need to get him to the hospital and into surgery ASAP. I’m pretty sure the bullet penetrated the subclavian artery.”

Declan looked up at Griffin, his eyes groggy, his head lolling. “What are you doing?”

“Going with you to the hospital.”

“No. Ride with the suspect. You need to question him now, just in case he doesn’t pull through. He didn’t look good.”

Declan was right. They needed answers, and chances were good he wouldn’t pull through, but . . .

“I’ll be fine.” Declan’s gaze shifted upward. “I’m in good hands, remember?”

Just as Jenna had been. . . .

With great apprehension, he finally did as Declan asked, climbing out of one ambulance and into the other.

The suspect’s pain-etched face scrunched as Griffin hunkered down beside his stretcher. Clearly he knew what was coming.

Though given the hardened scowl on his paling face, Griffin had the distinct impression he wouldn’t be giving up anything easily.

They pulled onto Route 1 headed south for the beltway and University of Maryland Medical Center.

Griffin tugged his phone from his pocket, Declan’s blood still on it, needing to call the last person in the world he wanted to.

26

P
arker nodded, his words strangled as shock tracked through him.
Declan shot
.

“Park, did you hear me?” Griffin asked more urgently.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. We’ll head right out.”

“Bring Finley.”

“Got it.” Parker hung up, shock numbing his limbs.

“What is it?” Finley asked, gently touching his shoulder.

He turned, the room spinning in the opposite direction. “Declan’s been shot.”

“What?” Her face paled.

“Griffin’s with him. They’re en route to the U of M Medical Center.”

“Is Declan going to be okay?” The pitch of her voice increased. “Is Griffin okay?”

“I don’t know, and yes, Griffin is fine.”

“I’m coming too,” Avery said, grabbing her keys. “I’ll drive.”

A thousand thoughts, fears, and memories flooded Parker’s mind.
How can this be happening? Not again.

The paramedic finished prepping the shooter and moved to sit up in the passenger seat, the sirens wailing as they merged onto I-95. The driver shifted to the radio, alerting the ER staff to the incoming patients’ trauma status.

Griffin shifted closer, and the man rolled his bald head, looking away. Leaning in, Griffin deepened his voice. “You can look wherever you want, but I
am
going to get answers out of you.” He planted his hand next to the man’s ribs, making his steadfast presence painfully clear. “Why take us out? The ID has already been made. What are you so worried we’ll find?”

The man remained silent.

“We know who had Marley killed.” Or so they’d been told.

“You know nothing.”

“I know
you’re
no longer a threat to us.”

The man rolled his head, his cold eyes locked on Griffin. “Perhaps for the time being.” A sardonic smile formed on his bluing lips. “But I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

“Are you talking about Perera?”

He remained silent, and something gnawed at Griffin. Not his threat. He’d been threatened before, but there was something about the man that nagged at him. He replayed the afternoon’s events in mind. The steps, the shots . . .

The man was left-handed. Majority of snipers were right-eye dominant, meaning they shot with their right hand regardless of hand dominance, but this guy—he’d shot left-handed, and that made him unique. If they showed his picture at the shooting ranges, surely a left-handed sniper whose weapon of choice was a Dragunov would stand out in people’s minds.

Sniper.

There was that nudge again. That niggle in his gut saying something wasn’t right.

If this man was the sniper who’d killed Marley, then surely he’d have killed Declan first shot. He’d made a good shot, but not the perfect shot he’d expect from Marley’s killer.

What if this wasn’t her killer? Had Perera killed Marley himself? If so, where was Perera now?

He leaned over the man, grasping his shirt as panic seared through him. “Who are you working with?”

The man chuckled up blood. “The devil.”

“Where is he?”

“Closer than you think.”