Page 1 of Bitter Truth
CHAPTER 1
Have you ever had the kind of close call that makes your entire life flash before your eyes? Not me. The second the tiny red dot from the rifle scope catches my eye, and I realize what it is, I’m too busy trying to keep my life than to think about what’s already happened during it.
I jump toward the nearest vehicle, hitting the ground, hoping to take shelter. Not even a full second later the window above me shatters, safety glass raining down on me as a resounding crack shatters the silence of the swamp.
My heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest as I curl into myself, trying to become a smaller target. My breath comes in ragged pants.
“Cassie!” Jake’s panicked voice carries through the open doorway where I stood only a moment ago.
“I’m okay.” As his shadow darkens the threshold, I add, “Stay inside.”
Disbelief that this is happening nudges aside the fear coursing through me. But it is. And as I stare at theexterior of my childhood home, anger that it’s happening here, at the sanctuary my grandfather left me, elbows its way through all other feelings to the forefront. How dare—
Two more cracks. Though the doorframe splinters with one of them, I can’t see where the other hit. This time I’m the one with terror in my tone. “Jake?”
“I’m fine,” he answers.
I draw a deep breath, doing my best to stay calm and steady my nerves. I can’t allow emotions to cloud my judgment. The only thing that matters right now is getting Jake and myself through this safely, no matter what it takes. I’ve got to do something to end this. Fast.
“What can I do?” Jake asks.
“Call Marla and let her know what’s happening.”
“On it.”
My superior officer at the FBI, Director in Charge Marla Jacobson, is a formidable woman. She’ll light whatever fire she needs to in order to get the calvary on their way. But she’s in Virginia.
The nearest field office to where I am, deep in the heart of the Florida Everglades, is in Miami, almost two hours away. The local sheriff hates me. Which means I’m going to have to handle this, whatever it is, on my own.
Kind of hard when I can’t move without revealing myself to the crosshairs. I need to figure out where the shooter is. Until I do, I’m trapped.
Glancing around, I look at what’s within reach. There’s not much, but as a plan forms, I launch into action.
Dirt wedges under my nails as I use my fingers to rake the pine needles that litter the ground into a pile. My legs tremble as I gather myself into a crouch and fish mykeys from my pocket.
Unlocking the door, I slither inside the ancient pickup, squeezing into the passenger side footwell. Sweat makes my palm slick as I reach across the sweltering cab, careful to stay below the dash, and slip the jagged piece of metal into the ignition. Turning it to ACC, I press the cigarette lighter in so it will heat.
The moment it pops out, I grab it and retreat, snatching a few stray receipts on my way as I exit the vehicle. If this works, I never want Jake to give me a hard time for not keeping the car clean again.
Back on the ground, I hold the red-hot coil of the lighter to the edge of one of the papers. Blow gently as the corner starts to wither, until a tiny flame appears. Use it to light my pile of pine needles. Once I have a small fire going, I add the rest of the receipts, the printer paper causing a small cloud of white to appear.
The smoke hangs low and heavy in the humid air. Slowly, it starts to rise. And then I see it—the beam cast by the sniper’s red dot sight as it searches for a target.
I follow the direction with my gaze, tracing it to the canopy of an oak on the far side of the driveway, about fifty yards away. Grimace as I find that the gunman is concealed by the thick foliage. Even if I could lay eyes on him, it’s a long shot to make with a pistol. But as I pull my firearm from the holster at my back, I tell myself I still have the edge.
They might have the weapon designed for long-distance shooting. An optic to help them aim accurately. A location that they picked for this battle.
But I spent my youth climbing that tree. Did it often enough that there was a time I probably could have scaled it with my eyes closed, relying on muscle memory alone. And as I shut my eyes now, recalling every branchand bough big enough to support the weight of an adult, I know where they must be.
I double-check the angle the reticle is coming from. Aim. Fire three times in quick succession. And get rewarded by a crash as the sniper falls from the tree.
“Those were your shots, right?” Jake’s voice sounds closer with each word. His spooked eyes meet mine as he appears through the open doorway, his cell clutched in one hand, a shotgun in the other.
There’s no explaining the grief I feel at the sight. At the knowledge that I’ve brought this trouble into his life—because there’s not a doubt in my mind that I’m the reason why it’s here.
“Did you get him?” he asks, pocketing the phone and raising the weapon to his shoulder as he moves to step outside. I hold up my palm, signaling for him to stay where he is.
“I got him out of the tree,” I say, not foolish enough to believe I managed to land a shot that I took blindly. But at least I managed to cost the shooter their advantage. “I’m not sure if he’s alone, though.”
