High-Caliber Holiday. Susan Sleeman

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      Icy-cold air laden with flurrying snow rushed into the train car as Morgan reached for a pole to get to her feet. It hit her then. She’d been shot. Shot! It was only a superficial wound, but even so, a bullet had grazed her arm.

      A bullet. An honest-to-goodness bullet.

      The night came flashing back like a fast-forwarded video. The pictures were bright, but blurred. The sounds frantic. Craig coming for her, wanting to kill her, his bullets piercing the glass, sending spidery cracks racing through it. Her decision to put the active shooter training into practice. To fight. When Craig no longer had his gun planted against her head, she’d shot out her foot and tripped him. It was risky, but she’d had no choice. He was going to kill her. Right there in the train if she did nothing.

      He’d crashed to the floor. The gun skittered away. She’d started to go after it when another gun blast sounded from a distance. The zip of a bullet was followed by the slice in her arm, pain radiating up. But she’d kept her cool and located the gun before Craig could get to his feet.

      She shuddered and forced her thoughts to the present. The deputy who’d called for a medic was hauling Craig off in handcuffs. His face was peppered with cuts from the glass. His shoulder was bloody, but he didn’t seem to notice.

      He came to a stop next to Morgan and glared at her. “Don’t think this is the last of this. I’ll make you pay.”

      “Pretty hard to do from prison,” the deputy said.

      Craig sneered at her. “I’ll find a way.”

      “Come on, Shaw.” The deputy jerked Craig’s cuffs and prodded him off the train.

      With Craig gone, she was suddenly aware of another deputy who’d arrived later than the others staring down at her. He stood tall and commanding as if protecting her from an unseen foe.

      Unseen foe. Ha! A thought she’d never expected to have.

      It was all so surreal, and she couldn’t handle much more. She needed to give her statement and get out of there before she fell apart. First, she had to get off the floor, out of the glass and away from the blood.

      She pulled up on the pole. Her knees buckled and the blood drained from her head. She wobbled.

      “Are you okay, ma’am?” the deputy asked. The car seemed to be spinning, and it was all she could do to find a seat before hitting the floor.

      “Head between your knees or you’re going to keel over.” He stepped forward and a strong hand pushed her head down, then held it in place.

      A whooshing noise rushed through Morgan’s ears, and she blinked hard to try to clear the dizziness. She was aware of movement around her and the man’s foot as he tapped on the metal floor, as if anxious to leave. Her vision was starting to clear, and she tried to sit up.

      “Not yet,” he said, obviously used to getting his way.

      She waited a few more moments. “I’m good to sit up.”

      “You’re sure you won’t faint on me?” His tone had lightened. “’Cause superhero code says a damsel in distress can only be rescued once a day.” He grinned.

      “No worries. I don’t need rescuing, by you or anyone else,” she replied more vehemently than called for. He was simply trying to alleviate her stress with a joke, but she was tired of people thinking she needed taking care of.

      “Have it your way.” His hand retracted.

      She shot up. Her head spun. She closed her eyes and waited it out.

      “Maybe you should’ve taken your time sitting up there,” he said, a Midwestern flavor to his tone.

      She opened her eyes and glared up at him. Her gaze had to travel quite a distance to reach his eyes. Past a broad chest. Past some very nice shoulders, to a handsome face. With his blond hair worn in a messy style, he looked more like a laid-back surfer than a cop.

      How in the world had she missed him when he’d come barreling into the car? Sure, all the deputies were fine-looking men, but something about this one made her want to linger on his flinty-black eyes that watched her intently as she studied him.

      “Deputy Brady Owens at your service,” he said as his lips turned up in a dazzling smile that she assumed made women swoon, but she could see it was forced. His eyes were troubled. He wore the same uniform as the others, black tactical pants and a polo shirt with a Kevlar vest on top, but an expensive-looking rifle with a high-powered scope hung over his shoulder. He didn’t at all seem the type to carry a rifle.

       Rifle? Wait.

      “You’re the sniper,” she said, her mind processing the fact that this man standing here ended lives with a simple pull of the trigger.

      He gave a clipped nod but said nothing else, leaving her feeling uneasy.

      “How does someone get a job like that? I mean, do you wake up one morning and say I think I’ll learn how to shoot people?” She knew she was rambling and sounding rude, but she’d never met anyone with this job and didn’t know what to say to him.

      “Marines needed me, ma’am, and I did my duty.” He stood taller and gone was the easygoing expression. It was now stony and unyielding. “Our armed forces are the reason you have the freedom to offer representation to a man who takes a woman hostage at gunpoint. And the reason that police officers can save lives in hostage situations like this one.”

      “Wait,” she said quickly. “No... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by my comment. I was just wondering about it, that’s all. I meant no disrespect. I appreciate the men and women of the military and the police.”

      He looked doubtful before his gaze lifted above her. She swiveled to see what he was looking at.

      A woman wearing the same black uniform and a stethoscope hanging around her neck marched forward. The thirty-something woman looked familiar, but Morgan wasn’t sure from where. When she got closer, their eyes connected.

      The woman smiled. “Hi, Morgan. It’s me, Darcie. Remember? From OSU.”

      Morgan rose slowly, searching her memory for a Darcie and testing her strength before stepping toward the door. As she got closer, the picture of a young girl in her philosophy class as naive as Morgan had been swirled in Morgan’s mind. “Darcie Wiggins?”

      She nodded. “Not Wiggins anymore, but Stevens, and yeah, it’s me.”

      “Of course,” Morgan said. “I’m surprised you remember me.”

      “I’d never forget the girl who set off to save the world one person at a time.”

      “Oh, that girl. She’s long gone.” Morgan laughed and grabbed her old Oregon State University friend in a hug, but pulled back when the pain in her arm made her wince. “Crazy to run into you here. I thought you were working as an ER nurse. What happened? Did the ER get too tame for you and you had to move on to the front lines?”

      “Changed jobs a few years back,” Darcie said, her impenetrable tone stopping Morgan from asking additional questions.

      “Ms. СКАЧАТЬ