— EIGHTEEN —
SOMETHING wasn’t right.
Rafe stood beside the long line of cruisers, reinforced SUVs and forensic vehicles while the tactical officers ran up to the door, loudly announcing their execution of a search warrant. He turned in a circle, looking for whatever it was that pinged in the back of his brain.
Something didn’t belong here.
His eyes narrowed in on a navy blue minivan parked over by the barn. Shit. Even at a bit of a distance he recognized the yellow bumper sticker and parade of stick figure decals on the rear window. He stabbed the button on his radio at the same time as he took off at a run to intercept Dean and the team approaching the out buildings. His heart thudded in his chest at the unexpected complication.
“Be advised—probable civilian presence in the barn.”
Dean’s voice crackled back immediately. “We can sort that out back at the detachment.”
“I think it’s Lynn Howard.”
The other man cursed. “Well, sucks to be her, then.” That was the truth, but they didn’t need her screaming at them like a fucking banshee, either. Growers knew the drill, understood the risk they’d assumed with their illegal business.
Rafe reached them just as the door swung open with a loud bang. The four officers in front of him snapped their weapons up, training them on the couple now framed in the open doorway. A man in his thirties with long, dirty hair held the struggling woman tightly in front him.
Lynn Howard was his shield, and she knew it by the look of panic on her face.
“Back up, or I’ll put a bullet in her gut.”
She blanched at the wall of police in front of her and Rafe stepped forward to placate both his friend’s wife and the asshole holding a gun to her back. He heard a growl from one of the tactical officers, a reminder this was pretty far outside his role and they had a negotiator on scene, somewhere, but he wasn’t here, was he?
He pressed calm and reassurance into his voice. Both fucking lies. “It’s going to be okay.” He addressed the blond man with the ponytail, hoping Lynn had the good sense to keep quiet. He could feel her gaze on him.
She had three little kids and a husband who loved her. What the fuck was she doing at a grow-op? He couldn’t look at her and stay calm. So he didn’t. He looked at the grower and drew him into a conversation. A minute, maybe two, passed, and then Dean’s voice quietly alerted him to the negotiator’s arrival from the far side of the house. John Hooper. Rafe had met him once or twice at training courses. Good guy. Loads of experience. Likely super pissed at Rafe right now. A problem for another time.
“Someone else is here, Wes. His name is John.”
“You don’t fucking move, cop.” Wes darted his eyes from left to right, his anxiety level rising again.
Rafe held out his hands, palms wide open, and reassured the other man he wasn’t going anywhere. “But if you want me to stay, how about you take me as your hostage instead of this woman, eh?”
Behind him, Dean swore a blue streak and John cleared his throat. “I can’t let you do that.”
Wes shoved Lynn forward and she stumbled, hitting the frozen, snow drifted laneway with a thud. She crawled on her hands and knees and Rafe moved to help her up. He kept his eyes on Wes, though, and when he saw his trigger finger tighten he knew it was all about to go tits up.
Rafe dove forward, covering Lynn with his body, but it was too late. Shots rang out, familiar noises in an unfamiliar context, and Wes hit the ground a few feet away from them, his face frozen in a death mask Rafe would see in his nightmares for weeks to come. Heavy boots thudded the ground around him—the freezing fucking cold ground, now that he was aware of it—and as soon as he was given a hand up, he took it. Someone else pulled Lynn off the ground. She’d get taken to a cruiser in a minute, but dealing with the aftermath of the shooting took precedence.
He looked down at the body at his feet then turned to Dean to confirm no one else got hit. His friend shook his head in silent confirmation. Sucker had it coming then. Rafe had no doubt the dealer shot first. The investigation would probably be pretty straight—
Whack.
The snap of a bullet smacking into the barn five feet in front of him had everyone scrambling. The officer who’d been quietly guarding Lynn dropped to one knee and spun around, looking for the shooter. Rafe swore and grabbed her hand, dragging her behind a useless pile of wood as a faster spray of bullets chewed up the ground around them. Someone in an outbuilding had a semi-automatic weapon and Rafe’s pulse pounded in his ears as he tried to orient himself. The woodpile wouldn’t stop anything but might make for some visual confusion. Lynn jerked hard against him and he hit the ground hard for the second time in as many minutes. This time it hurt a hell of a lot more. He’d landed on his shoulder and it felt like it was on fucking fire. “Shots fired, shots fired,” people yelled unnecessarily into radios, followed by, “Motherfuckers, officer down.”
Rafe couldn’t catch his breath. Fuck. That was him. His fucking shoulder. He swore out loud. Shots rang out again over head, and orders were yelled back and forth at a furious clip. He ground his jaw and tried to pull himself up onto his other arm but Lynn was a heavy weight right against him.
“All clear, get a fucking ambulance down here. Right the fuck now. Jesus Christ, Rafe, you fucking hero, you better be okay.” Dean thundered to a stop next to him and started swearing again.
“Yeah, it’s a lot of blood for a shoulder wound, eh?” Rafe laughed. He was hurt, but he knew it wasn’t fatal.
“Shut up,” Dean muttered, sliding his hand over Lynn’s neck. And that’s when Rafe realized why she was so fucking heavy. Oh fuck. Oh no. Oh fuck.
Dean shook his head and lifted her body out of the way. Rafe tried to grab for his radio but his fucking arm wouldn’t work. “Dean,” he spit out. “Ryan can’t be one of the first responders.”
His friend dropped to the ground a few feet away and laid Lynn out on the snow. Rafe watched helplessly as Dean leaned over her. His actions slowed as he opened her coat, then sank back on his heels.
“Get the fuck off me, man, I’m fine.” Rafe tried to push himself up as one of the tactical officers started to look at his shoulder.
Dean shook his head and came closer. “You need to lie still until EMS arrives.”
“Lynn—“
Another shake, this one slow, each swivel worse than a physical blow. “She’s gone.” Dean hesitated, his face pale and drawn. “She took a couple to the chest.”
The other officer had jammed something underneath his shoulder and was holding him together on top. Dean shooed him out of the way with the instruction to find out where the fuck Ryan Howard was and keep him away from the farm if need be.
Jesus Christ. Panic swelled in him at the thought of Liv hearing about this from a uniform she didn’t know.
Dean’s face swam in front of him. He needed a favour. He needed his friend to know he was okay, well enough to do this first before anything else. He cracked a joke. “Stop moving, man.”
“Hang in there, Rafe, the bus is almost here.” Dean’s tone promised he didn’t find it funny.
“My phone.” He licked his lips, trying to focus. He really wanted to close his eyes for just a minute, but he needed to do this first. “Does it work?”
Dean hesitated.
Desperate need clawed at his insides. “I need to call. Just in case.”
His friend shifted, keeping pressure on his shoulder as he lifted one blood soaked hand—fuck, was that all his blood?—and found Rafe’s phone in a pocket on the opposite side of his body.
“Password is 5489.” LIVY. “Her number is—” He coughed, and oh motherfucker did that hurt. But it wasn’t wet. Small miracles.
“Got it.” Dean held the phone to Rafe’s ear and looked at him sternly. “Keep it short. We’ll get someone to pick her up.”
It took three rings for her to answer. “Hey, sweetie.” Jesus, he’d gone too long without hearing her say that. “I’m at Mac’s helping out. We’re about to be swamped for lunch, how’s work going?”
Diner noises filled his ear and he closed his eyes. Dean poked him, thinking he’d drifted off. No fucking way was he going to pass out before he’d said what he needed to say. “Liv?” Damnit, his voice sounded weak.
“Yeah?” He was glad she was distracted. Hated that in a few minutes, two uniforms would walk through the door and make her cry.
“I love you.”
She laughed. “I love you, too. That’s all you wanted?”
“I love my job, too, baby.”
“Are you picking a fight, Rafe?” She laughed again. “Now’s not really the time. If this is about the weekend, it’s okay. Dani and I are going up to Tobermory—”
“Liv.” This time she stopped talking and he heard her walk away from the noise. Maybe to the office. Then it was quiet, and he wanted to throw up. “Listen, baby, something’s happened, but I’m okay.” Please, God, let that be true.
She started crying, soft sniffling that broke his heart, but when he opened his mouth to reassure her, he couldn’t find the words. It was getting hard to think. He groaned, and Dean took the phone, stabbing at the screen to activate the speaker phone before he returned both hands to Rafe’s shoulder.
“Olivia, it’s Dean Foster. We’re going to the hospital in Wiarton. A car will come and pick you up.”
“Oh my god. Ohmygod, ohmygod…” Her voice wavered in the air around him and he lifted his left hand, trying to catch it. “Tell Rafe I love him. Tell him—”
“He can hear you. Keep talking to him, okay?” Dean looked up as someone shouted in the distance.
There was music in the air, and then Rafe realized it was a siren. Sirens. The ambulances had arrived. And then his sister’s face was hovering over him. “Dani, tell Liv I’m going to be okay.”
She gave him a seriously pissed off look, then glanced at the phone lying on his chest. “Olivia, honey, we gotta hang up now. I’ll find you at the hospital, okay?”
“No, don’t hang up,” he protested, but it was already done.
“You’re going to cry like a little girl when we transfer you to the back board, Rafe. She doesn’t need to hear that.”
He laughed, but it sounded weak even to his own ears.
“Don’t close your eyes, Rafe. Stay with me…”
But he couldn’t. It hurt too damn much. And the light—and then the dark—was a welcome relief.