Chasing Fire
Page 70

“For Christ’s sake, get down, get cover,” he called out. “There’s a sniper.”
Dobie bolted for the jeep, dived. “Are you hit? Are you—Goddamn, Gull, you’re bleeding.”
Rowan bucked under him. “Get off, get off. Let me see.”
“Just scraped up from the asphalt. I’m not shot. Stay down.”
“Rifle.” Dobie shifted to a crouch. “I know a rifle shot when I hear one. From over there in the trees, I think. Damn good thing he’s a shitty shot ’cause the two of you were sitting ducks. Standing ducks.”
“Hey!” Trigger called from the far side of the hangar. “Is anybody hurt?”
“We’re okay,” Rowan answered. “Don’t come out here. He may be waiting for somebody to step into the clear.”
“L.B.’s got the cops coming. Just stay where you are for now.”
“Copy that. Get off me, Gull.”
“He tackled you good,” Dobie commented when Gull pushed off. “You know he played football in high school. Quarterback.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Rowan muttered it as she turned Gull’s arm over to examine the bloody scrapes on his elbows and forearms. “You got grit in these.”
“I liked basketball better,” Gull said conversationally. “But I didn’t have the height to compete. Had the speed, but I’d topped out at six feet until senior year when I had a spurt and added two more. Baseball, now, I like that better than either. Had a pretty good arm back in the day.”
Maybe talking kept his mind off the scrapes, she decided, because they had to sting like hell.
“I thought you were the track star.”
“My best thing, but I like sports, so I dabbled. Anyway, I liked collecting letters. I graduated a four-letter man.”
Rowan studied him in the fading light. “We’re sitting behind this jeep, hiding from some nutcase with a rifle, and you’re actually bragging about your high-school glory days?”
“It passes the time. Plus I had very impressive glory days.” He brushed dirt off her cheek. “We’re okay.”
“If you two are going to get sloppy, I’m not looking the other way.” Dobie leaned back against the tire. “Wish I had a beer.”
“Once this little interlude’s over,” Gull told him, “the first round’s on me.”
“I was thinking about going to the lounge, kicking back with some screen and a beer. Just stepped outside for a minute, and bam! bam!”
“So you ran out, in the open, instead of back in?” Rowan demanded.
“I wasn’t sure if either of you were hit or not, the way you both went down.”
Rowan leaned over Gull, kissed Dobie on the mouth. “Thanks.”
“I’m not kissing you. He’s gone,” Gull added. “He took off after the third shot.”
“I expect so,” Dobie agreed. “It’s full dusk now. He can’t see squat, unless he’s got infrared.”
“Let’s go.” Rowan pushed up to her haunches. “If he wants to shoot us, he could circle around in the dark and get us while we’re sitting here.”
“She’s got a point. Don’t run in a straight line. That’s what they say in the movies,” Gull pointed out. “Barracks?”
“Barracks,” Dobie agreed.
Before either man could react, Rowan sprang up, a runner off the blocks, and revved straight into a sprint.
“Goddamn it.”
Gull raced after her—could have caught her, passed her, they both knew. But he stayed at her back, zigging when she zigged, zagging when she zagged.
“We’re coming in!” Rowan called out, then hit the door.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Gull grabbed her, spun her around. “Taking off like that?”
“I was thinking you weren’t going to be my human shield twice in one day. I appreciate the first, I’m not stupid.”
“You don’t get to decide for me.”
“Right back at you.”
They shouted at each other while people shouted around them. Libby let out a piercing whistle. “Shut up! Shut the hell up. Everybody!” She shoved her hands through the hair dripping from the shower she’d leaped out of. “Gull, you’re bleeding on the floor. Somebody get a first-aid kit and clean him up. The cops are on their way. Okay, the cops are here,” she amended when the sirens sounded. “L.B. wants everybody inside until... until we know something.”
“Come on, Gull.” Janis gave him a light pat on the butt. “I’ll be Nurse Betty.”
“Is everybody accounted for?” Rowan asked.
“Between here, the cookhouse and Operations, we’re all good.” Yangtree stepped forward, drew her in for a hug that nearly cracked her ribs. “I was watching TV. I thought it was a backfire. Then Trig came running through, said somebody was shooting, and you were out there.” He drew her back. “What the f**k, Ro?”
“My thought exactly. Why would somebody shoot at us?”
“People are batshit.” Dobie shrugged. “Maybe one of those government’s-our-enemy types. Y’all got those militia types out here.”
“Three shots isn’t much of a statement.”
“It would’ve been,” Trigger pointed out, “if one of them had hit you or Gull.”
“Your father’s going to hear about this, Ro,” Yangtree commented. “You call him now before he does, tell him you’re okay.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” She glanced down toward Gull’s quarters before she stepped into her own to make the call.
Steaming, Gull endured the sting as Janis cleaned out cuts and scrapes. “What the hell’s wrong with her?”
“Since the blood on her appeared to be mostly yours, not much. And I know you’re talking about how she thinks or acts, but you’ll have to be more specific.”
“How can somebody trained to be a team player, who is a team player in ninety percent of her life, be the damn opposite the other ten?”
“First, smoke jumpers work as a crew, but you know damn well we all have to think, act and react individually. But more to the point, with Rowan it’s defense mechanism, pride, an instinctive hesitation to trust.”