Secret Stalker - Lena Diaz Tennessee SWAT

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out a shaky breath, then crept to the side of the display, ready to zip down another aisle to get to the front of the store. That’s where she’d last heard the sound of a pistol. And she was betting that pistol belonged to Max.

      She leaned forward, looked left, right, then—oomph! A hand clamped over her mouth and she was yanked backward behind the shirts.

      Bex struggled against her captor, twisting and writhing in his grasp.

      He pressed his cheek against hers and held her so tight she could barely move.

      “Be still, Bex. It’s me, Max.”

      She froze, then went limp with relief.

      He slowly lifted his hand from her mouth, as if he didn’t quite trust her not to cry out. She half turned to look at him, nodding to let him know she wasn’t going to sob hysterically and give away their position. Or at least she didn’t think she was. Cowering from gunmen was an entirely new experience for her. She could very well start screaming like a madwoman any second.

      Apparently Max had more faith in her than she did. He loosened his arm around her waist and let her go. She was about to ask him what she should do when he edged to the right of the display. His whole body was tense, alert, as he ducked lower and slid his pistol into the holster at his waist. What was he doing?

      A gunman, the one in the ski mask, stepped out from behind a stack of bagels and English muffins, his gaze zeroing in on Bex through a gap in the clothing rack. She ducked behind another shirt, expecting to feel a bullet slam into her any second. The gunman rushed forward, his sneakers visible beneath the clothes.

      Bex jerked her head toward Max. But he wasn’t even looking at her. He was poised like a runner, one leg down, one up, balancing on his fingertips like he was about to take off in a sprint. Ski mask guy stopped directly in front of the rack, looking down at Bex. He started to raise his gun.

      She squeezed her eyes shut. The air rushed beside her. The squeak of a shoe sounded on the floor. She heard a grunt, then...nothing. She was still alive. No bullets had ripped into her body and thrown her to the floor in a pool of her own blood.

      “Bex,” a harsh whisper sounded. “Move. Now.”

      Her eyes flew open. Impossibly, Max stood towering over her, ski mask guy hanging limply over his shoulder, his arms dangling toward the ground. Max jerked his head, motioning for her to run to the aisle directly across from them.

      Stunned that she was still alive and could run, she darted forward, stopping a few feet down the aisle and looking back.

      Max was lowering the unconscious—dead?—gunman to the floor under the rack. Bex swallowed, hard. Moments later, Max stopped beside her with a confiscated rifle in his hand.

      He frowned. “Are you all right?”

      She looked past him at the body visible beneath the obscenely cheery pink and green shirts. A shiver ran up her spine over their close call but she forced a nod.

      After a quick look to the far end of their row, Max checked the rifle’s loading, then yanked out his pistol and shoved it toward her.

      “Remember how to use one of these?” he whispered.

      She swallowed. “Sure. But I haven’t fired one in years.”

      Something dark passed in his eyes, and she knew he was remembering one of the many times long ago when he’d taken her to target practice. When other boys waffled between wanting to be a pilot or a fireman or maybe a professional football player, Max had never wavered in his desire to be a detective and SWAT officer like cool Chief Thornton, who’d visited Destiny High every year on career day.

      Max had loved the idea of piecing clues together and solving crimes as his main gig. And then, when the situation called for it, putting on full SWAT gear and storming some criminal’s compound to rescue hostages. It had been his dream. And seeing him now, so calm and focused, she knew that if anyone could save her and the other customers, it was Max. But only if she followed his instructions and let him do his job.

      She took the pistol, careful to point it away from him and keep her finger on the frame, not the trigger, as he’d drilled into her so many times.

      He gave her a nod of approval and pivoted toward the back of the store again, then the front, as if scoping out their situation. Then he dropped to his knees and peered in between the bottom shelf and the one above it on both sides of the aisle they were on. He hesitated, as if thinking something through. Then he was pushing boxes of noodles and pasta behind the jars of spaghetti sauce. When he’d cleared a spot a couple of feet wide, he grabbed her arms and shoved her toward the opening.

      She wanted to protest that she wasn’t nearly as small as he apparently thought she was. But the sound of footsteps, and Max’s head jerking toward the front of the store, had her squeezing into the impossibly small hole and pulling her legs in after her as tightly as she could. The sharp scrape of the metal shelf against her arm had her clenching her teeth. But she didn’t make a sound.

      He leaned down, held a finger to his lips motioning for her to be quiet, and then he was gone.

      She clutched the pistol in both hands, her pulse pounding so hard she felt light-headed. A tiny tapping sound started above her head. She twisted to see what was causing it and realized she was shaking so hard her shoulders were making the shelving above her rattle against its brackets. She drew several deep, slow breaths and concentrated on trying to calm down. The tapping stopped. Then she heard it, another sound—footsteps.

      Coming toward her.

      Her finger shook as she moved it to the trigger. Wait. It could be Max. She moved her finger back to the gun’s frame.

      Oh, God. Please let it be Max coming back for her.

      The tapping started again. She clamped her jaw and forced herself to hold still. The footsteps stopped. Was it one of the gunmen? Had he heard her?

      Ever so carefully, she peeked through the gap above the boxes of pasta to her left but couldn’t see more than a few feet. Looking the other way yielded more of the same—boxes and jars blocking her view.

      A squeak. Someone’s shoe against the floor?

      Her hand started shaking violently, the pistol bobbing in her grip. A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of her face.

      Another sound. Oh, God. Someone was behind her. She was surrounded. The person in her aisle shuffled forward, his shoes squeaking again.

      Bam! Bam! Bam!

      Gunfire sounded from the front of the store. She sucked in a breath.

      Bang!

      Another shot rang out.

      A new sound—scuffling feet not far from her hiding place. A muffled curse. A dull crack. More footsteps, hurrying toward her now.

      This was it. He was coming for her.

      She steadied the pistol, blew her breath out, tried to remember everything Max had taught her all those years ago. Exhale slowly, move your finger to the trigger, squeeze—

      “Bex, it’s me. Don’t shoot.”

      She blinked. Max? Wait, he wasn’t whispering.

      She moved her finger away from the trigger just as he crouched down in front of her and peered into her hiding place.

      “Max?” All of her questions and fears were in that one hoarsely uttered word.

      “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s over.”

      He gently took the pistol from her violently shaking hands, shoved it into his holster. And then he was scooping his arms beneath her, pulling her out of the maze of pasta and sauces and lifting her up against his chest.

      The sight of a dark heap on the floor had her throwing

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