Silent Night Suspect. Sharee Stover

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       TWO

      “One of those blue-and-red-flashing beasts better be an ambulance,” Slade murmured.

      Sound carried over miles in the flatlands of Nebraska. Only a few minutes had passed since the men had fled at the wail of the approaching emergency vehicles. Each rendition acted like a tornado siren, warning time was running out to get Asia talking.

      Slade knelt beside her. The uneven rotting boards of the pockmarked trailer’s porch steps dug into his knees, and the cold pierced through his long-sleeved uniform shirt. At least Asia hadn’t balked at wearing his patrol-issued coat. He’d draped it over her shoulders and kept his hand on her back to maintain pressure against the bullet’s exit wound. Concern flowed through him at the soaked material. She was losing blood at an excessive rate, and his internal frustration boiled over at her silence.

      Asia leaned against the paint-chipped railing, applying another gauze compress to the front of her shoulder. She’d given his mumbled declaration a second-long glance but had remained mute.

      He sat and made one final plea to her stubborn denial. “I want to help you.”

      “I know.” She shifted and met his gaze with a softened expression. “The cavalry is almost here. You’d better put on the handcuffs.” Asia held out her wrists, wincing with the movement.

      “Don’t worry about them. Focus on staying awake and keeping pressure on the wound.” Slade gently returned her hand over the injury, noting the smoothness of her skin. His attention shifted to the dark red stain mixed with streaks of grease and dirt marring her white blouse. The grime did nothing to distract from her beauty. Her shoulder-length hair hung in disheveled, shadowy rivers, framing her oval face and dark eyes.

      “I’m fine,” she rasped.

      “You’ve always been a terrible actor.”

      The corners of Asia’s lips tugged upward, then fell away as her eyes fluttered closed.

      “No sleeping for you,” he prodded. If she had a concussion, she had to stay awake.

      “I’m fine,” Asia repeated, righting herself and backing from his touch. Her shoulders slumped and seemed to bear the weight of the world.

      Slade concentrated on the flashing lights, fighting the desire to remove her burdens. She couldn’t be guilty. The internal policy and procedure manual played like background music in his brain, battling with concern for her well-being. “Do you remember anything else?”

      Dumb question since he’d already asked her the same thing a hundred different ways, but he had to help her. He owed it to Zander—and to Asia. “Maybe you recall being attacked? Or waking in a trunk?”

      The briefest hint of a smile broke through her downcast expression. “You watch too many television shows.” She shook her head, then glanced down. “You’re doing your job, and I need to follow the rules. I won’t fight.”

      Rumbling engines barreled down the snow-packed gravel driveway. Slade recognized his sergeant’s patrol car—the twin of his own pre-bullet-ridden vehicle—leading the pack with Slade’s brother Trooper Trey Jackson’s white K9 pickup following closely behind. Two brown sedans with sheriff county logos and an ambulance joined the entourage.

      “Are you able to walk?” Slade offered his hand. “Otherwise, I’ll carry you to the ambulance.”

      Asia straightened as if he’d cattle prodded her. “You’re not carrying me anywhere.” She grasped hold of the railing and pulled herself up. Her obstinacy rivaled any mule.

      Slade started to touch the small of her back, then thought better of it. “Just stay by my side and let me do the talking.” For once, she didn’t argue, and they walked toward Sergeant Oliver’s vehicle.

      “Jackson! What’s going on?” Oliver yelled, clambering out of the attractive low-profile Charger. The twenty-pound gun belt, Kevlar vest and the man’s bulky stature made for a difficult exit from the car. “Are you all right?” His gaze bounced from Slade to Asia, registering her presence. “Mrs. Stratton?” Oliver’s confusion said he too was trying to make sense of the situation.

      “Shooters bolted when they heard the sirens.” Slade stepped protectively closer to Asia’s side.

      “What happened to your car?” Oliver asked, mouth agape.

      The newer vehicle’s damage costs would make their way up the chain of command and right to the colonel’s desk. After Slade spent the next week filling out paperwork.

      Two EMTs advanced, and Slade sent a silent prayer of thanks for the interruption. “Let me get Asia—Mrs. Stratton—taken care of.” He excused himself from Oliver and addressed the medics. They visually assessed her condition as Slade provided a robotic report. “Mrs. Stratton has a bullet wound to her shoulder—appears to be a through and through—and she has a contusion on the back of her head.”

      The shorter of the two men nodded vehemently while charting on his iPad. White embroidery on his blue uniform shirt spelled Hereford. Easy to remember. Uncle Irwin had bred Hereford cows. The man’s youthful appearance had Slade questioning whether he was even old enough to drive the rig. Then he realized he sounded like his father, always complaining that everyone else was getting younger when the reality was he was the one aging.

      “I’ll get the stretcher.” The taller EMT jogged to the ambulance before Slade caught sight of his name on his badge.

      “I’m not riding on a stretcher.” Asia shook her head, one palm up in defense.

      “Ma’am,” Hereford began.

      “I’ll assist her to the rig,” Slade promised, not wanting her to become more agitated. What was wrong with her?

      Hereford frowned and joined his partner.

      Slade moved between Asia and the EMTs as a high school memory bounced to the forefront of his mind. “Still claustrophobic? СКАЧАТЬ