And being shot at.
It had been years since they had last spoken to each other. That had been his fault. It was a fact he had acknowledged each time he had been tempted to reach for the phone to call her or make the trip to Boston to visit. Selfishly, he had wanted absolution and a return of the companionship and friendship he had lost. But, he had known Wren well enough to know that if she wanted to offer any of those things, she would have reached out to him.
She never had.
Until now.
He pulled his handgun from its chest holster as he army crawled in the direction of the gunfire. He knew he had to stop the shooter, but he hated leaving Wren alone. They had been best friends. Buddies. Confidantes. She’d stood as his best man when he’d married Meghan.
He knew her almost as well as he knew himself, and he didn’t trust her to stay where he had left her. Even injured and cuffed, she would try to apprehend the shooter. He glanced back but couldn’t see her through the darkness. He couldn’t hear her, either, and he took that as a good sign.
He slid through the shrubs that butted up against the underside of the deck. He’d been meaning to dig them up. Now he was glad he hadn’t. He waited a few seconds, listening to the sudden silence, watching the darkness beyond the manicured yard.
“Don’t go after them,” Wren whispered, so close he knew she had followed silently.
“Them?” he replied, glancing back and meeting her dark eyes. She was on her stomach, her skin pasty white in the gloom.
“Two men dressed in Hidden Cove deputy uniforms. Both are armed.”
“You’re sure they aren’t actually police?” he asked.
“They shot Ryan. I think he’s dead, but I’m not sure. It’s possible that he can be saved if help arrives soon enough. I’d rather have you call for an ambulance than run into the woods looking for the shooters.”
“Your Ryan?” Titus asked, knowing that it had to be, that there was only one Ryan in town who Wren was affiliated with.
“Yes.” Her voice broke, and he had to resist the urge to hug her the way he would have before he’d ruined everything between them.
“I’ve already called 911. Help should be here soon, but letting them go? That’s not going to work for me.” He’d noticed the blood trail in his front yard as soon as he’d walked outside. He’d thought it might be an animal wounded by a hunter who was shooting out of season and on private property. That had made the most sense to him. He’d been back in Hidden Cove for four years. He’d found more than a couple poachers on his property.
Usually he let them go with a warning.
Tonight, he had been in the mood to press charges.
He had called 911 and then he’d gone out to look for the perpetrator. He hadn’t expected to be shot at, but he had been prepared for almost anything.
“Don’t make yourself a target, Titus,” Wren said. “Ryan has already been shot. I don’t want the same to happen to you.”
“Where is he?”
“Near his cruiser. About five miles outside of town. On Mountain Road. My SUV is there. The police shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.”
The faint sound of sirens drifted on the breeze. “It sounds like help is almost here,” she said.
“Wait for them here. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, crawling away, army-style.
“You’re not going to find the shooters. They’re heading back to their vehicle. There’s no way they’re going to wait around for the police to arrive,” she said, shifting into a sitting position.
“Get down,” he barked, fear making his tone harsher than he’d intended.
“I need to get these cuffs off, and I need to get back to my SUV. My cell phone is there. I want to call the FBI Boston Field Office and get some of my colleagues up here.”
“Wren, get down,” he repeated, crossing the distance between them.
“You don’t have any handcuff keys, do you?” she asked, dark strands of hair sliding across her cheek as she tried to get to her feet.
“I stopped carrying those when I quit the Boston Police Department,” he responded.
“I have some in my SUV.”
“I guess you have a good reason for that?”
“Yeah. You never know when you might need them.” She didn’t smile, but there was some life in her eyes again. “I want these guys. Sitting in cuffs while they escape isn’t helping me get them. You have a car?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s go.” She strode toward the two-story garage as if she knew he would only ever park his Jeep there. Because, of course, he did. Jeep in the garage. Coats in the closet. Keys on the hook by the front door. Everything in its place. All of it in order and neat.
She knew that. She knew him. More than most people.
His hang-ups and his habits.
And she had loved him anyway. The way one friend loves another. That had meant the world to him.
It still did.
He followed, making another call to 911 as he unlocked the garage and flicked on the light. He had the keys and his cell phone in his pocket. He unlocked the Jeep, helped Wren into the passenger seat, his hand curved around her biceps.
She’d always been muscular and fit. Now she felt fragile, her tendons and ligaments drawn tight over small bones. He reached for the seat belt.
“Don’t worry about that,” she said.
He shook his head. “Safety first.”
She didn’t argue. He had known she wouldn’t.
He knew her. Just like she knew him.
He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, pulling out of the garage and onto the dirt driveway that led to Mountain Road. They bounced over the deep ruts that he planned to fill when the weather warmed up and then turned onto the paved road that led to town.
She’d said Ryan was there.
Ambushed by the men who’d been trying to kill her.
He was thinking about that, watching the road in front of him more than he was the road behind. He expected to see emergency vehicles speeding toward his place. When he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a car coming up fast behind him, it took him by surprise. No headlights. Just white paint gleaming in the moonlight.
“What’s wrong?” Wren asked, shifting to look out the back window. “That’s them,” she murmured, her voice cold with anger or fear.
“Good. Let’s see if we can lead them to the police.”
“They’ll run us off the road before then.”
Probably, but the closer they were to help when it happened, the better off they’d be. He sped around a curve in the road, the white car closing the gap between them. It tapped his bumper, knocking the Jeep sideways. He straightened, steering the Jeep back onto the road, and tried to accelerate into the next curve as he was rear-ended again.
This time, the force of the impact sent him spinning out of control. The Jeep glanced off a guardrail, bounced back onto the road and then off it, tumbling down into a creek and landing nose down in the soft creek bed.
He didn’t have time to think about damage, to ask if Wren was okay or to make another call to 911. He knew the men in the car were going to come for them.
Come for Wren.
And