Page 34 of Only the Hunter

The sound of a car engine breaks the stillness. A bluebird takes flight from a limb of a small tree growing between the street and the parking lot.

Pop.

I’m moving before I understand why—lunging for the front of my car, knees hitting asphalt.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

The rear window of my rental shatters.

The car speeds up.

Someone exits Bee’s Liquor, phone pressed to his ear, scanning the area.

The car engine fades.

I peer around in time to see a blue Ford Mustang, a relatively new model, speed off out of sight. Too far away for me to read the plate.

My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the car’s hood—still warm from the drive—and force myself to breathe. The metallic taste of adrenaline floods my mouth.

A siren sounds.

I push up from my car, and the man across the street in Bee’s parking lot shouts, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I shout back, but I’m not. My car’s rear window is shattered. So is one of the liquor store’s windows.

Random drive-by shooting? Or was I the target?

I cross the street on unsteady legs. The man—fifties, neck and hands covered in tattoos—approaches. “Knuckleheads,” he mutters. “Shooting up everywhere.”

“Did you see them?” I ask.

“Blue Mustang. Relatively recent model. That’s all I got.” He glances at my rental. “You from Arizona?”

It takes me a second. The license plate. “No. Rental.”

“Lucky,” he says, and I don’t correct him.

Luck has nothing to do with it.

The sirens grow louder. A Maryland police officer pulls into the lot, and a woman exits the store, hurrying to her car. The owner waves her off—she was inside with him, safe.

But I was outside. In the open. And someone knew exactly where to find me.

The liquor store owner handles most of the police interview—he’s got better details on the car. Blue Mustang, 2020 or 2021 model. Couldn’t read the plate. No view of the occupants.

Neither of us saw anything useful.

While I hand over my rental paperwork and license, I can’t stop staring at the brick building across the street. Daniel should be coming out. Did he hear the shots? Or is he still inside, oblivious?

The building stays silent.

“You’re lucky, miss. This isn’t a great area.” The officer glances at my license. “What brings you out here?”

“A meeting.” I gesture toward the building.

He doesn’t ask for details, and I don’t volunteer that it’s a federal facility. Maybe he already knows.

“You’ll want to tow that,” he says, nodding at my shattered rear window. “Glass can be dangerous at highway speeds.”