Belatedly, Reese found the wherewithal to follow her gaze, but Rowdy tightened his hold and the second man went to sleep, making Peterson’s effort unnecessary.
They’d taken charge of the deadly situation with little fuss.
Neat, tidy, easy...
Until rapid-fire gunshots shattered the front window and pelted the walls and counter.
“Shit!” With alacrity, Rowdy released his man and dove for the front counter. His boots crunched over the sharp broken glass of a display case and the scattered, more gravelly glass of the big picture window.
Hunkered down in her high heels, her skirt still up and her blouse still open, Peterson scuttled ahead of him.
They both made it behind the dubious safety of the counter.
More shots zipped into the room, each one a dull ping that sent that debris scattering.
The shop was destroyed. It appeared the shooters wanted them all dead. Talk about overkill....
Utilizing professional detachment, Reese stayed plastered to a wall. As his man started to revive, he busted him again and let him slump supine to the floor. He glanced across the room, but Rowdy had choked the other one enough that he was breathing, but unresponsive even to the clamor surrounding him.
“Get over here,” Peterson snapped when several more bullets littered the interior, exploding yet another case.
“Move back.” As soon as Peterson got out of his way, Reese snatched up the Desert Eagle, ducked low and, on his haunches, joined them for cover. The damned counter wasn’t big enough to properly shield three people.
“Sit tight.” Rowdy slipped into the backroom.
Reese could just see him moving in a crouch, checking the small john, a supply closet and another backroom. He was unarmed, damn it, so he had no business playing hero.
“Rowdy.” Reese kept his voice calm and in control. “Damn it, don’t do anything stupid.”
Rowdy returned, his expression grim. “We have to get out of here. The artist is long gone, run off out a back door.”
If the owner could leave, that meant others could come in. Great, this whole f**k-up just kept getting better and better.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“GONE WHERE?” Peterson asked, as she tried—unsuccessfully—to pull her torn blouse together.
“Hell if I know. But only an idiot would’ve stuck around once the shooting started.”
To punctuate that, more shots were fired.
Where the hell was backup? Surely someone—anyone—had called in the gunfire by now. Even with suppressors, the denizens of the area had to know an attempted murder was going down.
Rowdy had been keeping watch out back, but for a second there, he stared at Peterson’s chest.
The lieutenant said low, “If you don’t want me to shoot you, use those eyes to keep watch out the back.”
“I’m watching.” He lifted his gaze but didn’t smile. “And while it’s clear, I’d suggest you hightail that sweet ass on out of here, now, while we can still go.”
Ignoring the sexist remark on her body, Peterson checked her weapon and cursed. “That might be exactly what they want us to do.” She narrowed her eyes on Reese. “What do you think? Not to give away an inside secret, but how do you feel about calling your little entourage?”
Few on the force knew that Reese had personally vetted some of the uniformed cops, forming a solid crew that was loyal to him. But calling them a “little entourage” didn’t do them justice.
The men were smart, honorable and, above all, trustworthy. “Not this time.” Calling in his own team on such short notice, bypassing on-duty officers, would draw too much attention and defeat the entire purpose of keeping an under-the-radar alliance.
Reese handed the gun with the suppressor to Rowdy, then pulled off his T-shirt and offered it to Peterson.
Rowdy lifted a brow and said to Reese, “Spoilsport.”
“You’re pushing it, Rowdy Yates.” She took the shirt.
But damned if she didn’t stare at Reese’s chest as intently as Rowdy had stared at hers.
It was like a comedy of errors, bizarre in the extreme. If they weren’t in such incredible danger, he might have laughed. “Lieutenant?”
“Right. Thank you.” Showing off strong legs, Peterson struggled into the shirt without standing up in sight of the gunmen or sitting on the broken glass. The awkward position strained her thighs, especially in those heels, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.
Reese pulled out his cell—and realized he’d busted it when he’d tackled the gunman to the floor. “Damn it.” He sent a questioning look to Peterson.
Her head cleared the shirt. “Dropped my purse on the other side of the counter—with my phone in it.”
They both turned to Rowdy.
He withdrew his cell and tossed it to Reese. “Knock yourself out.” Then, with a hand at the small of Peterson’s back, he helped to steady her, so she could get her arms free.
Before Reese could make the call, they heard groans coming from one of the downed men only yards away. He said as politely as he could manage under the circumstances, “I suggest we move before we get cornered.”
“Damn it.” Maneuvering in the limited space, she finished tugging the T-shirt down over her trim body. It fit like a damned tent, billowing down below her knees, more than adequate to keep her covered.
Taking the lead, she said, “If you have to shoot, make damn sure it isn’t a bystander.” And with that, gun held in front of her, she ducked through the back of the store.