Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Understood,” Laurel replied. She rarely relied on instincts, but none of this felt right.
Chapter 11
Huck finished the last interview of the day so far, his voice scratchy from repeating the same questions over and over. He’d managed to speak personally with everyone present during the courthouse steps shooting, and he had his team tracking down anyone else in the vicinity. CCTV from the courthouse showed nothing except the bullet hitting Abigail. No hint of a muzzle flash, no stray figure lurking in the shadows. Whoever took the shot had done it clean. Professional.
CCTV along the routes the sniper probably took had so far revealed nothing of value. Not surprising. Huck was a trained sniper himself; he knew how to avoid cameras, how to blend into the landscape so thoroughly even the best digital eyes wouldn’t pick him up. The shooter had likely used alleyways and pedestrian routes, maybe even public transportation. No car to trace, no license plates to run. He’d been good. Hell, if Abigail hadn’t been wearing the vest, the shot would’ve been fatal.
Huck had put out feelers to old contacts from his military service, asking them to track down any signature or style that might match this shooter. But it was like fishing in an empty lake. No nibbles, no leads. Which meant the guy was good.
Obviously he was good if he’d hit Abigail from that distance, threading the needle between columns and across a windy square. It was skill, sure, but also a damn message.
A knock at his door pulled Huck’s attention from the sprawling mess of files and notes carpeting his desk.
Laurel appeared in the doorway. “Hi,” she said, her voice as steady as ever, even if the subtle lines at the corners of her eyes betrayed her weariness.
“Hi, come on in.” He waved her toward the one chair that wasn’t drowning under stacks of paper. How he’d gone from pretty much living alone with his dog to now not only being part of this office but running it, he still couldn’t entirely grasp. It had happened gradually, then all at once, like falling asleep on guard duty.
Monty, the other captain in the office, was healing nicely from chemo, but the guy still needed frequent breaks. He was currently on a Bahamas cruise with Laurel’s mother, Deidre. They seemed like a good pair, but if things went south, it’d get awkward for them all. So Huck was hoping for everybody that they ended up in love and married and all happy.
Laurel walked inside, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She looked pretty today, in a feminine green sweater and jeans. That was probably Deidre’s influence. Her mother had an uncanny way of getting Laurel to wear whatever she thought best, whether it was comfortable or not.
Her earrings were dangly and pink, the necklace sparkling with tiny stones arranged like blossoms on a vine. Deidre had definitely given those to Laurel as a gift. And Laurel had worn them because his brainiac woman had a huge heart.
“You look like you’ve been living in here,” Laurel said.
Huck scratched the back of his neck. “Feels like it. But we’re not getting anything useful from the cameras. Whoever took that shot at Abigail was a pro.”
“I figured as much.” Laurel settled into the chair. “Abigail’s bruised but still breathing, thanks to the vest. She’s fortunate to be alive.”
He tried not to let frustration bleed into his voice. The more he dug, the more dead ends he found. “I’m reaching out to some old contacts to see if there’s any chatter about a sniper fitting the bill. So far, nothing.”
“Maybe he’s that accomplished,” Laurel said, her voice thoughtful.
“Perhaps he’s not working alone.” Huck leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, studying the woman he’d do anything to protect.
When she’d been pregnant, they’d started making plans to move in together, maybe build a barndominium on her mother’s property. Something rustic but solid, with thick logs and wide porches with enough room for them and whatever life they’d managed to piece together.
He knew Laurel still intended to build the place eventually. Rent it out, maybe, or use it as a safe house when one of her cases went sideways. She was pragmatic like that. Even in grief, she kept moving, eyes forward. But Cabo . . . Cabo had been different. They’d spent their time there like two people trying to escape the world. No badges, no crime scenes, no mixing themselves up in other people’s pain. Just ocean and sun and late nights tangled up in each other’s arms.
He wanted a future. Still did, even if she wouldn’t quite look at him the same way since the miscarriage. Like she was afraid of asking too much, of hoping for anything other than the here and now.
“Any news about Walter’s brother?” he asked.