After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 182

Scraaape.

Over the sound of the horses, wind, and her own frantically thumping heart, she thought she heard a footstep.

Crrrunnch.

Another one, this time on the shattered glass! And to her horror, in the jagged pieces of glass still clinging to the mirror’s frame, she saw that she, indeed, wasn’t alone. Behind her, caught in the reflection, was a partial image of a woman.

And she, too, was armed, a bit of a gun visible in one shard.

Their eyes met.

The gun was leveled.

From his position in the stall, Trent, woozy from the loss of blood, thought he heard footsteps . . . not one set, but two. Each pair coming from a different direction.

What did that mean?

Did the assassin have an accomplice?

Or did the second set of soft footprints belong to Cassie?

Oh, Jesus. Would she have come out here after she heard the report of the gun? Would she have been that stupid? Dear God, he hoped not. He silently prayed that she had the presence of mind to call the police and then get the hell out. Drive away.

But then he knew better.

Fuck!

Damn that woman! Why couldn’t she ever do what she was told?

Because she’s Cassie Kramer, that’s why.

With an effort he drew himself to his feet, steadied himself for a second, tried to get his bearings and nearly passed out. He waited until the wave of blackness receded and took several deep breaths. Dragging his bad leg, he made his way to the edge of his stall, the one farthest from the silo. He was dizzy as hell and used a post for support. He’d lost his phone when he’d been shot, it had skittered across the floor and was hidden somewhere, probably inoperable. Geez, he’d bungled this. All because he’d been ridiculously stupid thinking an animal and not a prowler had been on the farm. He’d thought the rifle and dog would be enough protection.

So where the hell was the dog?

Craaaack!

A gun blasted, the roar echoing to the damned rafters, and the sound of glass shattering and spraying reached his ears.

Cassie! Oh, Jesus!

Fear grabbed his throat and held on tight.

Horses neighed in terror, kicking at their stalls, and footsteps rang on the concrete floor, running footsteps, heading the opposite direction, toward the silo. And another sound, the loud rumble of a truck’s engine, came through the open door.

A second later light washed over the windows, headlights burning in the night. Thank God! He started for the door and heard the distant wail of sirens, never sounding sweeter as they shrieked through the night.

Help was on its way.

He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

Dragging his useless leg, propping his rifle on his shoulder, he pulled himself along the stalls with his free hand and nearly passed out. He leaned over the top rail and cleared his head, told himself to press on.

The police might be coming, but they were too far away.

He couldn’t wait.

Cassie didn’t look over her shoulder, just took off on her injured ankle, pain shooting up her calf.

Bam!

A gun fired again, a bullet miraculously missing her as it zinged past her head.

Fueled by adrenaline, ignoring the throb in her leg, she took off. She ran headlong into a post, her injured shoulder ramming into the rough timber, her feet slipping, the gun nearly falling from her hand.

Don’t drop it. Hang onto the damned pistol.

Forcing her legs to work, she spun around the post, her arm throbbing, her heart in her throat.

“Cassie!” She thought she heard Trent call to her over the cacophony of sounds, the whistling neighs of horses, the rush of the wind battering the siding, the thudding of her heart, and the deadly tramp of footsteps following her, taking their time, knowing that she was running blind. She listened, didn’t hear his voice again, thought she probably imagined it. But the sound of approaching footsteps was unmistakable. And closer.

Onward she raced, her boots ringing as she stumbled through the maze that was this part of the barn. Where the open area for the animals had been easy to work through, the interior of this area was cut with rooms and bins.

Without hesitation, determined footsteps followed her. Getting closer. Echoing through her skull.

Desperate, she rounded a corner and came up short.

Ahead was a blank wall.

One side was a tack room, she thought, the other an empty area to store tools.