After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 178

“Cassie?”

“Yes! I need help. Trent’s in the barn and there’s been gunshots. Well, just one. But there was a scream and—”

“A scream?”

“Yeah. Maybe an animal. Maybe human, I don’t know. It was awful. Trent was already outside and then I heard a gunshot. I texted him and he hasn’t gotten back to me. Oh, God, I’m so worried. I called nine-one-one, but you’re closer.”

“On my way,” he replied. “I’ll be there in five.”

That could be too long.

Shane said, “Stay put.”

She clicked off, slid the phone in her pocket, held the pistol firmly. Her stepfather’s advice rang in her ears as she opened the door and stepped into the rainy night.

Stay put.

“Like hell.”

CHAPTER 36

Lying on the barn floor, breathing the scents of dust and horses and urine, Trent sucked in his breath and cursed himself a dozen times over. Pain screamed up his leg and he dragged himself to one of the empty stalls while the horses in boxes all around him neighed in terror. Blood stained his jeans and he hoped to God his femoral artery hadn’t been hit by the damned shot.

He’d entered the barn carefully and seen nothing. Still, cautious, he hadn’t snapped on a light.

Hud, however, had been agitated and the minute they’d stepped into the barn, had taken off like a streak, running down the corridor, toenails clicking, racing past the stalls where horses were shifting nervously in their stalls.

That was odd. The hackles on the back of Trent’s neck had raised and he’d lifted his rifle, though he’d been loath to fire it in the tight confines of the barn. He’d reached for the light switch.

“Aaaayeeeeooow!”

A shrill, blood-curdling scream rose to the rafters.

What the hell?

He’d started jogging. Toward the sound. Toward the silo. Ignoring the pain. Heading to the area the damned dog had disappeared. The interior was dark, what little light there was coming through the tiny windows, the security lamp providing the barest of illumination, but he knew every timber and rafter inside, had repaired all the walls and feed bins and stalls, remembered where each tool was hung.

Still he’d moved cautiously, squinting into the darkness, listening hard for any sounds over the rapid beating of his pulse drumming in his ears, and the nervous whinnies of the horses pacing and pawing in their boxes.

Nothing.

Not even a noise from the dog, or none that he could hear.

He’d had a flashlight on his phone, but turning it on would only draw attention to him, and someone or something was inside this barn. Whoever or whatever it was didn’t seem friendly.

He’d been about to duck into the tack room and text Cassie to call the police when he’d heard something . . . the soft tread of footsteps? And he’d felt a rustle in the air, movement behind him. He’d spun and lifted his rifle to his shoulder in one motion, but it had been too late. The would-be assassin had gotten the drop on him, somehow silently dispensing with the dog, and fired the instant Trent had been in his sights.

Son of a bitch, Trent thought now. He’d been foolish, too comfortable in his own ranch, believing that some animal was causing the dog to go nuts.

He should have been more careful.

Christ, he’d been in the damned military. He knew better.

Shit.

Now, he was waiting in the dark, his back against the wall of the stall, his rifle ready, though firing in the building would be a disaster with bullets ricocheting against the walls and posts.

But here, he was a sitting duck. If the killer had night goggles, Trent was as good as dead.

Without making a sound, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his phone and realized he was weakening, his brain not as clear.

Damn!

Did he hear the sound of footsteps outside the stall? Was the killer taking aim? Or were the noises just the sound of restless, nervous hooves in the straw or his own imagination running wild? Tensing, he focused on the open stall door. Waiting. Expecting to hear another blast from a gun.

Get a grip, Kittle.

You can’t lose it now. Think of Cassie. She has to get to safety. Somehow.

He blinked. Concentrated. Heard a banging and realized he’d left the damned door open and it was catching in the wind to pound against the siding.