“What the hell?”

Another projectile whizzed past and splashed down into the smoky water to the right of him. He heard a loud crack. Beads of water sparkled in the air. Ducks began to flap and quack-quack in panic. Wings beat the air around him. Another crack split the silence of the autumn afternoon.

A duck fell out of the air and flopped brokenly on the muddy slope at his feet.

Behind him he heard a weird thwack and the sound of the 350Z’s window shattering.

He was being shot at.

Chapter Eighteen

It took a couple of vital, disbelieving seconds for Elliot to process—clearly he’d been in the private sector too long—before he threw himself behind a clump of rushes. Not nearly a large enough clump. He automatically reached for his holster before he recalled he wasn’t wearing one.

There was a pistol locked in the glove compartment of the 350Z. He had been paranoid enough to stow a gun in the car that morning, but had automatically rejected the idea of packing heat on campus. The idea of someone actually opening fire on him in broad daylight had not seriously registered.

The tips of the rushes whispered and snapped as another bullet shaved the spiny tops of the stems and ploughed into the mud near his left little finger. He clenched his fist and, heart in overdrive, scrambled back, crawling into the water, flattening himself to the slimy slope, half-in and half-out of the lake. He barely noticed the shocking chill of the water. The cold merely served to numb the pain of his bad knee scraping onto rock.

Where the fuck was this shooter?

Elliot raised his head a fraction, then flattened as the rushes whispered again followed by the inevitable crack of sound reverberating off the water. He was doing his best to keep low behind the ragged vegetation ringing the lake, but there wasn’t much of it. He was effectively pinned down. Even if he could rely on his knee to carry him in a sprint up the muddy slope and across the few feet to his car, he wasn’t sure that this sniper wasn’t positioned to pick him off the minute he cleared the top of the slope.

In fact, he wasn’t sure this sniper wasn’t positioned to pick him off where he was hunkered down right this minute. Given how close the shots were, he—or she—seemed to have a damn good idea where Elliot was hiding.

He felt around for his cell phone and remembered that he’d left it lying in the passenger seat.

He heard the wet whine of a ricochet off the water and swore. The guy was using a rifle. Probably a .22. Most effective under five hundred feet, but still powerful enough to maim or kill within four hundred yards if the shooter was very lucky—or Elliot was unlucky.

In his entire life he had never feel quite so powerless. Not even lying in Pioneer Courthouse Square with a bullet in his leg and an automatic-weapon-bearing political extremist headed straight for him.

Unless he could think of something, any minute now this sniper was going to get lucky and Elliot was going to be dead or dying.

He spared a quick look back at the lake. As a last resort could he try swimming? Maybe not the length of the lake, but he could make for that small floating island of reeds to his left. He had to do something, get himself into some kind of strategic position. If this shooter came to the conclusion that Elliot was helpless, he was liable to simply walk across the meadow and pop him.

That alarming thought manifested itself at the same time he heard the swift approach of an engine. He rolled, splashing down into the frigid water and swimming to the thick stand of reeds a few feet away. The bullets continued to stipple the water around him, so whoever was headed his way was not—and then, instinctively, he knew who was headed his way.

Tucker.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. They had agreed to meet at the Black Bull.

Elliot risked a look. His heart leapt. Yes. He knew that blue Nissan Xterra.

Maybe Tucker hadn’t trusted his precious former crime scene to Elliot. Maybe Tucker decided to give him the personal tour. Whatever the reason, Tucker was coming in fast, riding to the rescue—whether he knew it or not.

Elliot sank back, treading water. Over the lap of water, the rustle of reeds, he heard the engine whine of the Nissan Xterra, gears grinding, tires churning mud and stones.

Pushing the wall of reeds aside, he saw Tucker spin out in a forward 180, a bootleg turn. The vehicle rocked to a stop and Tucker scrambled out to return fire using the engine block for cover.

The familiar reassuring bang of a standard issue Glock 22 resounded through the clear afternoon air.

The cavalry had most definitely arrived.

There was no return fire. Either the sniper was reloading or he was getting the hell out of Dodge.

Three shots and the Glock’s final blast dissipated into sunlight and wind, the sound of the shot bounced off the faraway walls of the campus buildings. In the distance Elliot heard a car engine retreating fast, and overhead, the lazy raucous jeers of a crow winging past.

Elliot became aware that the icy water was sapping his strength. His teeth chattered, his whole body shaking, but despite the cold, his knee felt charred to the bone with a deep, sick pain. His ear throbbed where the bullet had nicked it. Even so, he’d got off lightly.

There was a shower of pebbles scattering down the muddy berm and Tucker appeared, taking the slope at a slithery run.

“Elliot?”

“Here.” Elliot struck out for the shore, half swimming, half wading as his feet touched mushy ground. When he tried to stand, his knee wouldn’t support him, and he would have collapsed if Tucker hadn’t sloshed out to meet him, hauling him to his feet.

“Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

Elliot croaked, “Groovy.”

Tucker gave a funny laugh. “The hell.” He wrapped an arm around his waist, offering needed support. “Your neck’s bleeding.”

“Ear.” Either way, he’d very nearly got his head blown off.

“Jesus, Elliot.” Tucker’s voice shook. He put his other arm around Elliot and pulled him close.

A million questions were chasing around Elliot’s fogged brain, but none of them seemed important compared to the astonished delight of finding himself alive, mostly unhurt and in Tucker’s arms.

Tucker embraced him with something close to ferocity. Elliot went with it. He hugged Tucker back, resting his face in the damp curve of Tucker’s neck and collar. Tucker was muttering something, but Elliot couldn’t make out the words as he breathed in a combination of scents that seemed to connect with all his memories: leather, faded aftershave, gun smoke. Tucker’s hard, muscular arms were wrapped so tight around him he could barely catch his breath. He could feel Tucker’s heart slamming against his chest—or maybe that was his own heartbeat. Either way, they both sounded winded, stricken.

After a few seconds he realized that the deep muttering sound Tucker was making was wordless, inarticulate fury. Elliot started to laugh.

Tucker was growling.

“What the hell is funny?” Tucker asked with a kind of pained outrage. “What am I missing?”

Elliot shook his head, lifted his face. Tucker’s blue eyes blazed with an intensity of emotion. Elliot couldn’t look away. Their mouths met. It seemed natural, inevitable. Tucker’s lips felt exactly the way Elliot remembered, tasted exactly as he remembered. For such a hard man, Tucker had a sweet, lush mouth. The kiss started out gentle, but in those seconds of shared breath the pressure increased, grew urgent, frantic.

“Elliot,” Tucker moaned, and it sounded like protest, although Elliot would have had to head butt him to break the liplock as their mouths turned rough, biting, bruising. Elliot’s skin tingled as Tucker’s lips traveled to the sensitive skin beneath his jaw, delivering a sharp nip that set Elliot’s already overloaded nervous system clamoring.