Line of Fire

  © 2012 Rachel Ann Nunes.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © 2012 Nunes Entertainment, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  Visit us at ShadowMountain.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Nunes, Rachel Ann, 1966– author.

  Line of fire / Rachel Ann Nunes.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-60907-155-4 (paperbound)

  1. Rain, Autumn (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Paranormal fiction. I. Title.

  PS3564.U468L53 2012

  813’.54—dc232012019832

  Printed in the United States of America

  Malloy Lithographing Incorporated, Ann, Arbor, MI

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Appreciation goes to reader Mercedes Rose Herndon, who helped me with details about shamans and who pointed me in the right direction regarding the Marion County Sheriff’s Office.

  Thanks also to early readers Cátia and Gretchen, who helped me fine-tune the manuscript.

  As always, I’m grateful to my editor, Suzanne Brady, for her work on the book and for loving it despite its flaws. She always encourages me, and our shared love of words makes the process fun.

  My product director, Jana Erickson has been a constant support, and I’m grateful for her vision in championing this series.

  Thanks once again to the design and marketing staff at Shadow Mountain, as well as the retail division. I couldn’t get my books to my readers without all of these people, and I appreciate their work in my behalf.

  Thanks, everyone!

  Chapter 1

  People don’t usually feel strongly about countertops, so they don’t contain many imprints, especially those at a gas station. Maybe a hint of impatience at a new checker or frustration if a person was in the middle of a long road trip—temporary, fleeting emotions that fade almost as soon as the customer moves on. That kind of imprint meant only minor discomfort. Nothing that would cause me to wear gloves or stare in glazed horror.

  That I stopped in the middle of my question to the clerk, one hand splayed on the counter, was my first clue that this counter was different.

  Most people develop maybe ten percent of their brains. I happen to be one of the lucky few who develop a bit more. But I wasn’t gifted in mathematics or music or something that people recognized as a boon to the world. No, I read imprints, emotions left behind on beloved personal objects or imprinted during events that evoked great emotion—love, hate, fear, terror. Unfortunately for me, most of these latter imprints are negative. Psychometry is the scientific name for my skill, and it’s a questionable one at best, but it helps me save lives and find missing people.

  “Autumn, you okay?” Shannon’s voice came to me as if from far away. Strange when I could feel the pressure of his hand on my back. When the imprints are strong, I live them as if the events happened to me and they become part of my memory. At the moment the Autumn he knew couldn’t answer.

  It was easy. Just take out the gun, point it at the clerk, and get what I’d come here for. And more. They’d had a lot of traffic that morning, and the cash drawer should be full. Do it now, during this lull. With the other employee out for an early lunch and the last customer driving away. The feel of the gun in my hand. Small and hard. Racked and ready to fire. If that clerk hesitated, I’d shoot him. I’d do it anyway when I had what I wanted. Wipe that smug look off his face permanently.

  Wait. A couple was coming into the store. I hadn’t seen them drive up to the gas pump. They must not have seen the closed sign I’d placed out front to stave off potential traffic. Frustration and anger waved through me. An urge to shoot, to get what I needed.

  No, better to wait. It wasn’t just the money. I could never forget that.

  It was odd watching Shannon and me walk up to the glass doors, and it reasserted my sense of self as nothing else could. This was not my experience or my feelings but someone else’s, a man, if I could tell by the thin, callused hands in the imprint. Sometimes hands were misleading.

  “I forgot something,” I/he told the clerk, my voice rough with frustration. “I’ll be right back.” Heart pounding, I/he picked up the bag of chips he’d brought to the counter, and the scene vanished.

  Another imprint followed, weak and faded by comparison. This one came from two weeks earlier, a vague frustration as a clerk stopped to answer a question from another customer in the middle of ringing up an order. I managed to lift my hand from the counter and it vanished.

  “Autumn?” Shannon said again. His hand was heavier on my back now, and I turned my head to meet his concerned gaze, the blue-green color of his eyes brighter and more intense than I’d ever seen them. Probably because of the light streaming in through the glass doors and windows behind me. The premature wrinkling around his eyes was also more pronounced. He wasn’t tall for a man, which meant he was only a few inches taller than I was, but the graceful way he moved his compact body with no wasted effort always attracted women’s gazes. He’d attracted me right from the beginning, even when he’d been so irritating I could barely stand him.

  “Trouble,” I whispered. Because the man from the imprint was still in the store, and he was planning to rob it. Part of me wanted to run to the door and leave as he expected, but the other part knew our presence was the only thing preventing him from carrying out his plan. If we left, I didn’t have any hope for the clerk making it through this day alive.

  “Did you decide not to buy the drinks?” the clerk asked me. Kirt, according to his name tag. He was young, probably in his mid-twenties, a strong, handsome guy with dark hair that hung straight and a little shaggy over his ears. Would he hand over the money easily to the robber or would he try to be a hero? Given the emotions in the imprint, I didn’t believe it would make a difference in the final outcome.

  “Just a minute,” I said. The antique rings on my fingers were exuding their usual comforting imprints, dulling the intensity of the counter experience. It was why I always wore them, to protect me against unexpected negative imprints.

  Kirt shrugged and stepped back from the cash register, picking up a magazine lying open on the counter.

  Shannon’s hand left my back and inched toward the concealed weapon he always carried at his waist, even when he was off duty. As a consu
ltant to the Portland police, I’d been through the training and my concealed-carry permit was in my wallet, but I didn’t usually carry. Today was no exception.

  Shannon scanned the store, trying to pinpoint the danger. At least he’d learned enough about my talent to take me seriously. I didn’t stop as I usually did to ponder how that tied in with his attraction for me—a feeling he’d fought since the minute we’d met. Or had until a few weeks ago.

  I spotted the man behind Shannon, pretending to look at a row of cold cereal boxes. He was of average height and wore a tan coat that seemed a little large, a blue baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. A few light-colored locks escaped, curling tightly up over the base of the cap. His eyes met mine—and held.

  Uh-oh. I’d never been good at masking emotions.

  Something in his expression changed. Fire raging. He went for his gun, his movements a blur.

  “Down!” I yelled, pulling at Shannon, my left arm screaming at the strain. Though I’d removed the bandage from the fleshy part of my arm where I’d been shot several weeks ago, the muscles were still tender.

  A shot whirred over our heads. Not good—except at least now the clerk had also dropped to the floor. Hopefully, the bullet hadn’t found him first.

  The man came toward us firing, his face grim with determination. Shannon rolled me behind him and went up on his knees, drawing his own gun, but the man ducked behind a shelf of toiletries. Shannon shoved something in my direction—his backup weapon, a compact 9mm of a brand I didn’t recognize.

  I froze with the weapon in my hand, steeling myself for a flood of gruesome imprints, but he’d used this gun solely for target practice, so the only thing I picked up were hints of frustration or satisfaction, depending on how well he’d shot at the range on any given day. Barely a distraction to me.

  “Find a place to hide,” Shannon said through gritted teeth. “Shoot him if he comes after you.”

  We’d had the gun argument before—my last gunshot wound had come from a gun he’d made me carry—but now wasn’t the time to get into it again.

  “Police!” Shannon shouted, edging around an aisle. “Put down your weapon and come out. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Another shot answered his demand. The clerk yelped, though he was behind the counter and presumably safe, except perhaps from ricochet. Shannon returned fire, and the glass case in the freezer section shattered. That caused the man to pause, and for a moment I hoped he’d run away. I mean, it was one thing to attack three civilians but quite another to face an armed police officer. Though the robber couldn’t know it, Shannon was a crack shot and the best homicide detective in Portland, maybe in all of Oregon.

  I heard a metallic clang, and black smoke oozed into the space around me. Great, just great, I thought. Apparently, this guy had come prepared. I crab-walked backward down the aisle, hoping to find a safe corner where I could pull out my cell phone to call for help. It was a long way to go, and my left arm burned.

  Another shot and splintering glass.

  Shannon ducked behind a display of donuts. A least I think it was Shannon. Hard to tell with all the smoke.

  A flurry of shots followed that had me cringing, wondering how they could even see to shoot in such thick smoke. One of the huge outside windows shattered, following closely by two more. Smoke billowed toward the openings.

  Then I heard the slam of feet on the floor and saw a blur near the counter.

  “Put down your gun,” said a voice I recognized from the counter imprint. “Or I’ll shoot him. I swear.”

  “Please,” whined the clerk, his voice cracking. “Don’t hurt me.”

  Under the cover of smoke, the perp had somehow managed to get behind the counter. Though the smoke was now slowly clearing, I couldn’t see where Shannon was, but I hoped he wouldn’t give up his gun. I suspected the guy would shoot us all anyway. Though I couldn’t read people as I could objects, I didn’t need any unusual ability to feel the desperation leaking from him. He was angry and had something to prove, something I hadn’t picked up in the imprint.

  I’d crept far enough into the store that I was near a wall, huddled behind a display of canned foods. Behind me was a swinging door—an employee office or stockroom. I wondered if there might also be a back entrance so I could go for help.

  I didn’t think Shannon or the clerk could wait that long.

  The weight of the semiautomatic pistol felt heavy in my hands, though it was small compared to a full-sized weapon. If I were Tracy Reed, Shannon’s partner, I’d rush the man from behind, jab the gun in his ribs, and demand surrender. Or I’d save the day by somehow shooting the perp without endangering the clerk. All while still looking as if I’d just come from a high society party. But I wasn’t Tracy. My weapons of choice were my hands and feet. My agility. I was a good shot on the range, better than good, but using those skills on a real person was quite another matter.

  “Put down your gun,” the man repeated. “Now! Or I swear I’ll shoot him through the head!”

  “And then what?” Shannon asked. “Tell you what. You give up your gun now, and it will go a lot easier on you. No one has been hurt yet.” From the sound of his voice, I guessed that Shannon was farther from me than I’d thought and much closer to the far end of the counter. Good. One distraction would be all he’d need to rush the gunman.

  Yet even from my position, I saw the man’s hand tighten on his weapon. The clerk moaned. “Say good-bye,” the man said, his voice gaining a lilt, as though in anticipation.

  “There’s no hurry,” Shannon said. “Let’s talk about this. What’s your name?”

  “What’s my name? My name?” yelled the man, punctuating his words with spittle. “You don’t care what my name is. This is all you understand.” As he said the last words, he moved his gun and fired.

  The bullet ripped through the clerk’s right shoulder. He screamed in an agony I well remembered.

  “Next one is in his head.”

  “Okay,” Shannon said. “I’ll put it down.”

  “Kick it my way.”

  No, I thought, as I heard Shannon’s Glock slide over the tiled floor.

  It was now or never. Thrusting the 9mm in my coat pocket, I grabbed a can of pork ’n beans. I hoped Shannon was as good as I thought he was or this might be the last thing I ever did. I rushed the counter, throwing the can as soon I was close enough to hit my target. Sensing me, the man turned, his gun swinging in my direction.

  I was already diving for cover but that didn’t mean I’d make it.

  The can caught him on the side of the head.

  Using the distraction, Shannon hurtled over the counter, slamming into him. They disappeared from view. The clerk screamed again.

  Jumping to my feet I hurried around the counter, my hand once again gripping the weapon Shannon had given me. Terror at what I might see made my heart pound double time. It had taken Shannon and me months to admit there was something between us, and I desperately wanted time to explore exactly what that something was.

  Neither of the men had a gun, but they were on the ground, slugging each other. The gunman had lost his cap. The clerk crouched nearby, agony on his face, his hand covering the wound in his arm. He would be no help.

  I knew without checking that the gun I carried had a bullet in the chamber. I liked to have to rack a gun before I knew it could fire, but Shannon always carried his weapons ready.

  Squeezing the trigger, I shot once, the bullet pounding into the floor by the perp. Both men froze. Shannon recovered first, slamming a fist in the other man’s face before reaching for my gun. “That was kind of close,” he said mildly.

  I relinquished the pistol. “I’m a good shot.” I spoke as though my heart wasn’t still having trouble finding a normal beat. Shannon wasn’t dead. We were okay. I wanted to melt to the floor with relief.

  Shannon smiled. “That you are.” He forced the man to lie facedown on the linoleum. “Get me something to tie his hands, okay? Th
en I’ll call this in.”

  “You don’t have handcuffs? I thought those were something you never left home without.” I smirked because it kept me from doing something else, like weeping. Though I was only a lowly police consultant, dealing with men like this had become my job. I was still deciding if I was going to keep at it.

  “They’re in my glove compartment,” Shannon said. “With the way trouble finds you, I really should have them in my pocket.”

  I lifted my hands. “Hey, I had nothing to do with this.”

  He spared me a smile that brought warmth to my face and pushed back my urge to run from the store.

  Moans from the clerk penetrated my brain. “I’ll be right there,” I told him, as I began rifling through the drawers and cupboards under the counter. Finding some twine that might have once held a stack of newspapers together, I threw it to Shannon before hurrying to the clerk.

  I didn’t think he was in danger of bleeding to death, but there was enough blood for concern. “Do you have a first-aid kit, uh, Kirt?” I asked, looking at his name tag to remember his name.

  “Through that door back there, by those cans. It’s hanging on the right.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I passed Shannon, who was barking into his phone, sounding annoyed. Though we were out of his jurisdiction, he’d work it out. He was good at law enforcement politics.

  I found the kit and put on a pair of rubber gloves before using all the gauze on the clerk’s wound, as well as a couple packages of car rags they had for sale in the store. I finished by wrapping his shoulder with the duct tape I’d discovered earlier in one of the drawers. “There,” I said. “That will hold you until the paramedics arrive. Unfortunately, I don’t have anything for the pain. Sorry.”