Tennessee Takedown

She twisted in the officer’s arms, looking back toward the shooter. The gunman lay on the floor, convulsing, the haft of a knife sticking out of his neck. Blood bubbled out of the wound.

She clutched the officer’s arm where it circled her waist.

“You—you threw your knife, while he was holding me?” she squeaked.

He gently grasped her chin, forcing her to turn away from the shooter.

“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice gruff but laced with concern.

She dragged her gaze up his armor-covered chest to stare into a pair of stormy blue-gray eyes.

“Are you injured? Did he hurt you?” he demanded.

She swallowed and shook her head. “No. No, he didn’t... I don’t think...” She shuddered. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.”

“How many are there? Did you see any other gunmen?”

“He’s the only one I saw.”

He lifted her away from him. “Get her out of here.”

A pair of strong arms grasped her waist and pulled her away.

Another officer hauled SWAT guy to his feet.

“Sit rep on the shooter?” he asked one of the others.

“Deceased.”

SWAT guy, obviously the leader, motioned to the man holding Ashley’s arm and another officer standing by the window. “Stay alert. Assume a second shooter is still in here. Get her out while we clear the rest of the building.”

* * *

YELLOWCRIME-SCENEtape fluttered in the early-summer breeze, bringing with it the smell of impending rain. Ashley sat on one of the folding chairs the police had set up in the parking lot. Most of her coworkers had already been interviewed and had been allowed to leave. Ashley had been interviewed, too, but the detective who’d spoken to her had asked her to wait. She wasn’t sure why.

The dead—eight in all—were still inside the building as crime scene technicians took pictures of the carnage and documented what had happened. The wounded—only three had been shot and survived—had been taken to the hospital.

The company’s owner, Ron Gibson, stood talking with a couple of detectives about twenty feet away. The grief on his face reminded Ashley that he’d lost his only son today—Stanley. But Gibson was apparently a hero. He’d dragged one of the wounded out the exit before the police arrived, and he was going to be okay. The temp, whose name Ashley still couldn’t remember, was also going to recover. The bullet had only grazed her head.

Another gust of wind blew through, swirling Ashley’s hair. She pushed it out of her face and wished she had a ponytail holder with her. A shadow fell over her and she glanced up to see the SWAT officer who’d rescued her by throwing his knife at the shooter.

He’d shed the heavy body armor and vest with the big white letters on it marking him as SWAT. In dark blue dress pants and a white dress shirt, he could have been one of her coworkers, except that none of her coworkers were quite as muscular and fit-looking as this man. Then again, if he made his living wearing all that heavy equipment, she supposed the muscles were honestly earned.

He smiled and shook his head. “You didn’t hear anything I said, did you, Miss Parrish?”

“I’m sorry, no. I was...thinking. What did you say?”

He pulled another folding chair over and sat across from her. He held out his hand and she automatically took it.

“I’m Detective Dillon Gray. I know you’ve already been interviewed, but I wanted to ask you a few more questions. Are you up to it?”

She shook his hand, but when he mentioned asking questions, all she could think about was the knife sticking out of the shooter’s throat. She clutched his hand instead of letting go.

He didn’t seem to mind. He held her hand and simply scooted his chair closer, resting his forearm across his knees.

“How long have you worked at Gibson and Gibson?”

She shook her head. “I don’t work here. I mean, not for the company. I’m an independent consultant, an auditor. I work short-term contracts. I came here three weeks ago—no, four. Tomorrow...tomorrow would have been my last day.” She shivered.

A look of interest lit his blue-gray eyes. “Were you brought in because of a problem? Did you find anything that concerned you when you performed the audit?”

“No, on both counts. Mr. Gibson—” she nodded toward the owner, who was being escorted to his car by one of the policemen “—he applied for a substantial loan to expand the business. The bank hired me to perform a routine audit before granting the loan. Everything checked out. I was going to recommend the loan move forward. I was supposed to finish the formal report today.”

A coroner’s van pulled up to the front of the building. Bile rose in Ashley’s throat.

“Ignore them. Focus on me.” Gray’s deep voice was low and soothing, but it had the bite of authority.

She looked away from the van and met his gaze.

“I’m almost done,” he said, his voice gentle. “Then you can go.”

She nodded. When she heard the squeaky wheels of the coroner’s gurney rolling toward the front door, she clutched his hand harder, using him as her anchor.

Another gust of wind, stronger than the rest, slapped the detective’s pants against his legs. He looked up at the sky, which was casting a dark pall over the parking lot. “Looks like the weatherman was right. We’re in for a heck of a storm.”

He smiled at her again, and somehow the tension squeezing her chest eased, if only a little.

“I’ll make this quick,” he said. “You said your time here was temporary. Where’s home?”

“Nashville. I’ve got an apartment there.”

“Made any enemies in Nashville that might have come here looking for you?”

She blinked in surprise. “Me? You think the shooter was after me, specifically?”

“Routine questions. Just exploring all the possibilities.”

The panic that had started inside her faded beneath his matter-of-fact tone. “The answer is no. I don’t have any enemies. Not that I know of.”

“You didn’t recognize the shooter, correct?” he asked.

“I’ve never seen him before.”

“Did he speak to you, call you by name?”

“No. He just...smiled, this really creepy, spooky smile.”

His brows lowered. “What do you mean?”