Page 44 of Crossfire Creek Siege

Before Gage could answer, raised voices drifted down the hall from the bullpen. It wasn’t shouting, more the controlled chaos of something bad unfolding fast. Then, he caught it. A familiar voice.

Brady.

Gage was already moving, and Rena was right beside him, matching his pace as they pushed through the door into the bullpen. Brady stood near the center of the room, one hand pressed to his arm, blood seeping between his fingers. The dark stain spread quick, soaking into his sleeve. His face was pale, but his voice stayed level when he saw them.

“Someone shot me,” he said flatly. “Outside. Black SUV, didn’t see who.”

Gage’s eyes flicked to the wound. Upper arm, clean entry. Looked like a through-and-through, but it was bleeding like hell.

Rena was already assessing it, her training kicking in. “That’s a gunshot,” she said, glancing toward the deputies. “Get pressure on it now.”

One of the deputies grabbed a first-aid kit from the wall while another picked up the radio. “Dispatch, this is Deputy Sanchez, we need an ambulance at the sheriff’s office, possible GSW, adult male.”

The room filled with movement, voices, clatter, boots on tile. But Gage kept his focus on Brady. He’d seen enough men shot to know the difference between panic and performance.

And Brady didn’t look scared.

Brady gritted his teeth as the deputy cinched a bandage tight around his arm, blood still leaking through the edges. His jaw flexed with pain, or maybe just frustration, as he looked up at Gage and Rena.

“When I stepped outta my truck,” Brady explained, “some son of a bitch opened fire. Missed with the first shot, clipped me with the second.” He winced, sucking in a breath. “I got a look at him before he bolted. Name’s Dean Kellarman.”

Gage exchanged a quick glance with Rena. Dean Kellarman, that was one of the thugs who’d been on the initial suspect list. A petty mercenary with a reputation for working cheap and dirty.

So maybe it was another hired gun. Maybe Brady was telling the truth.

But Gage had learned a long time ago that “maybe” was a dangerous word.

He studied the man, his composed expression, the careful choice of words, the way he offered just enough detail to sound convincing but not enough to prove anything.

It didn’t sit right.

“I’ll let the sheriff know what happened,” Deputy Sanchez said, firing off a text.

Moments later, with her phone still in her hand, the sheriff came into the bullpen. She took one quick look at Brady’s arm before turning to the deputies.

“Pull the exterior feeds from every camera within two blocks,” she ordered. “And get a patrol unit to the scene. Shooter’s probably long gone, but I want tire tracks, shell casings, anything.”

The deputies hustled off to follow through.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” the sheriff said, turning back to Brady.

Brady nodded. “I parked across the street from the station. Got out, was locking the door when the first shot came in. Missed me by inches. I dropped, drew my weapon, but his second shot didn’t miss. The shooter took off into the alley when I returned fire.”

“Anyone else see him?” Sheriff Chase pressed.

“Didn’t stick around to ask,” Brady said dryly. “But I know what I saw. Dean Kellarman.”

Gage studied him, noting the casual delivery, the lack of adrenaline that should’ve been there after a close call like that.

“You said this Dean Kellarman fired two shots,” Gage said. “We didn’t hear either of them.”

Brady met his gaze. “That’s because he used a silencer.”

Gage’s brow twitched. It was possible. Equally possible, too, that this was all a lie.

The sheriff gave a slow nod, her expression unreadable. “We’ll check the feeds and get statements from anyone nearby. Until then, consider yourself in protective custody.”

Brady gave her a humorless smile. “Now, why doesn’t that make me feel safe?” he muttered.