crunched driver’s door left open. Trevor jumped over debris and ran to the back of the store. The man kicked open the metal back door and ran into the alley.
“FBI! Stop!” he shouted.
The man ran down the alley toward the road, and to Trevor’s horror, Jocelyn appeared from around the corner. As he saw the subject aim his gun, Trevor’s blood left his head. But Jocelyn ducked back around the corner of the building just before a bullet hit the concrete.
He gained on the running man.
Jocelyn peeked out from her hiding place and aimed her weapon. “FBI! Stop!”
The shooter fired in answer, hitting concrete again as she leaned out of sight.
A man who’d shoot at a law enforcement officer was a dangerous one. Trevor put all he had into his run. The man glanced back as he veered to the left, away from Jocelyn, and sprinted down a busy street. He toppled a few chairs in front of a café. Trevor leaped over those and saw the man shove a middle-aged woman out of his way. She sprawled to the concrete sidewalk.
Trevor veered around her, quickly assessing her to make sure she was all right before charging after the heartless man who’d plowed into her.
He gained some more on him. The man glanced back and swung his gun, very poor aim. He fired and Trevor feared for innocent lives along the way.
Closing the gap, Trevor grabbed a hold of the subject’s shirt. The man rolled onto his back, gun waving as he tried to steady it for aim. Trevor knocked his wrist and then punched his eye.
The subject’s head jerked backward, and Trevor almost wrestled the gun from his grasp, still holding on to his own gun, but the man moved his arms and legs in a practiced way to throw Trevor off. He knew how to fight. Trevor should have anticipated that. His hold loosened just enough for the man to escape. Trevor got to his feet just as a blur of a shape passed him. Jocelyn, running at full speed.
Stumbling into a run, Trevor took up chase behind her, cursing his mistake of overconfidence.
The man ran into an Indian food market, located in a strip mall. He tipped over a display of spices. Boxes and containers scattered over the floor. Jocelyn jumped over most of the mess but smashed one of the boxes in her chase. Trevor cleared the spices in one easy leap. The man ran down an aisle, pushing a shopping cart and the woman behind it. She bumped back against the shelf of jars, knocking some of those, one breaking when it fell. At the end of the aisle, the man twisted and fired haphazardly. Jocelyn shot back, not aiming to kill. She wanted to talk to him as much as Trevor did. But she missed.
Bursting through swinging double doors, the man ran into the back of the store. Jocelyn and Trevor followed.
Trevor put his hand on Jocelyn’s arm to make her stop. He peered around the wall and ducked back in time to avoid being shot. Shouts of workers echoed as they scurried to get out of harm’s way.
Peeking around the wall, Trevor saw the man running for the open overhead door, where workers had stopped unloading a delivery truck. The truck still ran.
Jocelyn must have thought of the same thing, because she headed for the driver’s side.
Trevor reached the side of the truck just as the man opened the truck door. He would try to get away in the delivery truck. Hauling the driver out, the man climbed up into the truck while the driver sprawled to the ground.
Seeing the gunman turn and aim his weapon at Jocelyn, Trevor felt another moment of dread. Jocelyn would be shot!
He dived for her. Tackling her to the ground, he heard the bullet ping a nearby Dumpster. The gunman shut the truck door.
Trevor shot at the front and rear tires as he scrambled to his feet and ran for the driver’s door.
“Out of the truck! Now!” Trevor had the man’s head in aim.
The man looked from Trevor’s gun to his face, his own gun not raised enough to fire with any accuracy. His hands had been occupied trying to drive away, and now he was caught. Trevor knew it. The gunman knew it.
After a brief stare-down, the man held up his hands, making sure Trevor saw that his fingers were off the trigger. Trevor stepped forward and opened the door.
“Step out of there,” he said. “Nice and easy.”
He backed up as the man complied.
“I didn’t do it.”
“Nobody said you did.”
Jocelyn appeared next to him with cuffs. “Turn around and put your hands on your head.”
The man did.
“You’re under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon,” Jocelyn said. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand?”
“I didn’t kill my wife.”
“Nobody said you did,” Trevor said again.
The man turned his head and looked at him over his shoulder. “Then why are you arresting me?”
“You ran from us after we approached you and then shot a gun at us. Is there anything about that you find questionable?” Jocelyn asked, her sarcasm shining through.
“I knew what you’d think. Everyone always thinks the husband did it.”
“Let’s talk about that at the station.” Jocelyn took him by the arm and guided him back toward the store.
“I want an attorney.”
Trevor followed them back through the store, past several people recovering from fear, stepping back and out of the way. He called in the arrest. A few minutes later, a car arrived in front of the store and two other officers took the gunman away.
Now standing on the sidewalk with a crowd of onlookers, Trevor turned to Jocelyn. “Don’t ever do that again.”
She faced him in genuine question. “Do what again?”
She really didn’t know? “Go after somebody who has a gun.”
“I had a gun.” She held up hers in front of him, barrel up as she flipped on the safety.
“You were almost shot back there.”
With an indignant twirl, she started up the street beneath the watching crowd. Ignoring them, he caught up to her. Obviously she didn’t take criticism well, not about her detective work. He always found that intriguing. There had to be a reason.
“What made you join the FBI, anyway?” He let himself enjoy another look down her body, lingering on the glimpses of her perky breasts moving with each of her steps. “You aren’t the type. I mean, you’re tomboyish enough, but...”
She glanced over and caught him admiring her breasts.
“Stop while you still can, Agent Colton.”
Stop getting personal, she meant. He ignored her comment. “Why not get married and raise kids?”
“I seem like the housewife type to you?”
He looked straight ahead because looking at her while they talked like this would get him in trouble. “Not the way you’re thinking.”
She gave him an indignant look. “You’re talking personal.”
He ignored her again, preferring not to analyze that right now. He was getting personal, going against his rule. But one thing nagged him.
She wouldn’t make a good housewife. She’d make a great wife. A man wouldn’t be able to get enough of her. He’d have lots of kids with her because of that. And that filled him with both fantasies and foreboding. The foreboding had him shoving the thoughts