Page 4 of Hollow Trace

He stared at her, still trying to determine if he was crazy, or slowly bleeding out and this was his brain giving him one final, death-worthy memory.

She sighed. “Quinn. I know this is a lot to take in…”

A lot to take in? He’d buried an empty coffin. Stood there while the shots rang out across the cemetery.

Watched his entire future get covered with six feet of dirt. And she thought suddenly having her come back from the dead was a bit jarring?

She nudged him. “How many shots are left in that mag?”

He shoved down the questions — the mixture of relief and pain, of wondering if he’d even crossed her mind since his soul had been shredded into a thousand pieces — popped out the mag, then clicked in his last replacement. “She’s full, now.”

“Good. I’ll lay down more cover fire, while you hoof it to our truck. You can cover me once you’ve got the rear passenger door open.”

“Or, I’ll lay down the cover fire, while you get your ass to safety.”

“I’ve got the carbine.”

“And I’ve got the badge that says this is my call.” He grunted when she simply stared at him. “Looks like dying didn’t help your stubborn streak.”

“I’ll explain everything later, I promise, just…” A twitch of her mouth. What he recognized as the first crack in her armor. “Please.”

He pushed out a rough breath, glancing over at Brea’s Wrangler. Not that he thought they’d have a chance to make a play with it, but leaving it here, without her, chipped away at whatever part of his heart Scout’s death hadn’t shattered. The pieces still lying broken at his feet, despite her being only a foot away.

She snapped her fingers. “Quinton!”

He muttered under his breath. He’d come back. Have his truck and Brea’s Jeep towed before he hunted down whoever had snatched his sister. Because regardless of Scout’s apparent rise from the dead, he wasn’t losing another person he loved.

He nodded, waited for her to start firing, then hauled ass across the fifty feet to the Gladiator’s rear door. Gravel crunched beneath his boots, the steady thut of Scout’s rifle cutting through the lingering echo of the flash bang.

He reached the vehicle, yanked open the rear door, then spun, picking off some asshole who’d ventured to the edge of the tree line before shifting — targeting more men trying to flank the Jeep.

Scout booked it for the passenger door, bullets snapping in the air like angry hornets, a few rounds sparking off the plating on the quarter panels. As if the men didn’t care that Quinn was catching them in their vests, constantly sending one of them hurtling backwards.

He waited until she slid into the seat before jumping in, slamming the door shut as some guy in the front revved the engine. The wheels spun, kicking up gravel and mud, as he popped the vehicle into second, peeling out of the spur in a cloud of choking dirt and stones.

Rounds followed their retreat, one cracking the rear window as they raced down the incline, barely making the tight corner at the bottom, the wheels skipping across the washboard, before lurching ahead, the wind howling through the hole in the rear.

Quinn shrugged out of his pack, grabbed the handle beside his head, then met the driver’s gaze in the rearview. He squinted. He recognized the man’s face. He’d been at Scout’s team’s funeral, too. Had stood over Neve Monroe’s grave, looking as if he intended on jumping inside the coffin. The way Quinn assumed he’d looked. That everything good in his life was inside that wooden box. The guy had also been part of a report a couple months later. What Quinn was starting to think was some kind of covert conspiracy, with him being the only one still left in the dark.

The guy, Barrett, Quinn thought, stared for a while, looking as if he was sizing up Quinn before cursing as more rounds pelted the rear end. A couple, black heavy-duty SUVs punched through the dust cloud behind them, headlights cutting twin circles through the dusk.

Scout opened her window, firing back at them as Barrett followed the main road, rocks spitting against the sides, that hole in the rear window spiderwebbing across the surface.

Quinn tapped Scout on the shoulder when she ducked back in, the next round shattering the side mirror. “Give me the damn carbine before you get your fool head shot off.”

Scout glared at him. “Not my first rodeo.”

“Mine either, and I have the vantage point through the rear. Glass is already broken.” He arched a brow, waving his fingers at her. “Unless you plan on climbing back here with me.”

Barrett looked over at Scout, mouth pinched tight. “I realize you’re a cop…”

Scout changed the mag, handed Quinn the weapon. “Quinn’s not military, but he’s tactically trained. Could give you a run for your money in the sniper department.”

Barrett stared in the rearview as Quinn knocked out the rest of the window with the butt of the rifle before laying down a quick line of suppressive fire. Enough that the other vehicles swerved out of the way, buying Barrett a few seconds to float the Jeep around the next tight turn and punching the gas as they peeled out.

Quinn waited, clipping the lead SUV in the grill and tires with the next trigger pull. The vehicle shimmied, nearly plowing into a tree before swerving back, still bouncing along the road.

He grunted. “They’ve got armor and run flats. It’s gonna take more than we’ve got to make a dent.” He checked the mag. “Unless you’ve got more grenades hanging around.”