Shirlee McCoy - Falsely Accused

She tried again, afraid to knock and give away her location. When it didn’t open, she searched the back porch for a spare key. The beam of a flashlight skipped across the yard near the corner of the house, and she darted down the steps, tried to run to the back of the property.

Too late.

Someone grabbed her shoulder, hard fingers digging into tense muscles. She whirled, sideswiping her attacker’s ankle. He swayed but didn’t fall. She shoved forward, using her body weight against him, trying to knock him to the ground. He muttered something, his grip loosening almost enough for her to break free.

She tried again. This time he stepped sideways, letting her tumble to the ground. She fell hard, the breath knocked from her lungs, her vision blurring. She could have stayed down, but she’d been fighting hard battles most of her life, and all she really knew was how to keep going.

She managed to roll to her back and was struggling to get up when a bullet whizzed past and slammed into a deck railing. Wood splintered, a piece of it digging into her cheek. She had no time to react.

Her attacker was on her, pressing her into the cool grass. All her training flew out of her head. All the years of careful control were gone. In an instant, she was back in time, fighting off the man who had just murdered her mother. She brought her knee up. Or tried. He had her pinned. Legs pressed to legs, chest to chest, his entire body covering hers.

She twisted, the bone in her injured arm snapping. She would have passed out if adrenaline hadn’t been pouring through her. She bucked, trying to throw off his weight.

“Stop!” he growled. “Someone’s shooting at you, and we’re both in the crosshairs. I don’t know what your plans are for tonight, but I’m not planning to die.”

It was the voice rather than the words that stilled her frantic movements. She knew the gritty texture of it, the soft Southern drawl that had never left. Not even a decade after moving to Hidden Cove with his mother.

“Titus?” she managed to say, the name ringing hollowly in her ears.

He tensed, then shifted just enough so she could breathe.

“Wren?” he responded.

He was looking into her face, staring into her eyes like he had dozens of times when they were kids exploring the woods together.

“What’s going—?”

Another bullet slammed into the deck, and his weight pressed into her again. This time, though, she didn’t fight it. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when she’d headed toward his property. If she had she wouldn’t have done it. Bringing danger into someone else’s life wasn’t the way she operated. She didn’t want Titus hurt because of her, and if she could have jumped up and led the gunmen away, she would have.

“You need to get out of here,” she whispered.

“We need to get out of here,” he responded, his lips brushing her ear. “Who is it? What does he want?”

“I don’t know who he is. What he wants is me dead,” she replied.

“How about we don’t let him achieve his goal? Stay down and stay quiet. I’ll see if I can get a visual.” He rolled away, cold air replacing the warmth of his body as he moved.

She wanted to tell him not to go. She wanted to remind him that she was an FBI agent and knew how to take care of herself and her problems, but her thoughts were sluggish. Before the words could form, he was gone, disappearing like a wraith into the darkness.

Wren Santino was the last person Titus would have ever expected to show up at his house. Finding her in his backyard just after midnight on a late winter night? He couldn’t have imagined that if he’d tried.

But she was there.

Pale faced. Bleeding. Handcuffed.

And being shot at.

It had been years since they had last spoken to each other. That had been his fault. It was a fact he had acknowledged each time he had been tempted to reach for the phone to call her or make the trip to Boston to visit. Selfishly, he had wanted absolution and a return of the companionship and friendship he had lost. But, he had known Wren well enough to know that if she wanted to offer any of those things, she would have reached out to him.

She never had.

Until now.

He pulled his handgun from its chest holster as he army crawled in the direction of the gunfire. He knew he had to stop the shooter, but he hated leaving Wren alone. They had been best friends. Buddies. Confidantes. She’d stood as his best man when he’d married Meghan.

He knew her almost as well as he knew himself, and he didn’t trust her to stay where he had left her. Even injured and cuffed, she would try to apprehend the shooter. He glanced back but couldn’t see her through the darkness. He couldn’t hear her, either, and he took that as a good sign.

He slid through the shrubs that butted up against the underside of the deck. He’d been meaning to dig them up. Now he was glad he hadn’t. He waited a few seconds, listening to the sudden silence, watching the darkness beyond the manicured yard.

“Don’t go after them,” Wren whispered, so close he knew she had followed silently.

“Them?” he replied, glancing back and meeting her dark eyes. She was on her stomach, her skin pasty white in the gloom.

“Two men dressed in Hidden Cove deputy uniforms. Both are armed.”

“You’re sure they aren’t actually police?” he asked.

“They shot Ryan. I think he’s dead, but I’m not sure. It’s possible that he can be saved if help arrives soon enough. I’d rather have you call for an ambulance than run into the woods looking for the shooters.”

“Your Ryan?” Titus asked, knowing that it had to be, that there was only one Ryan in town who Wren was affiliated with.

“Yes.” Her voice broke, and he had to resist the urge to hug her the way he would have before he’d ruined everything between them.

“I’ve already called 911. Help should be here soon, but letting them go? That’s not going to work for me.” He’d noticed the blood trail in his front yard as soon as he’d walked outside. He’d thought it might be an animal wounded by a hunter who was shooting out of season and on private property. That had made the most sense to him. He’d been back in Hidden Cove for four years. He’d found more than a couple poachers on his property.

Usually he let them go with a warning.

Tonight, he had been in the mood to press charges.

He had called 911 and then he’d gone out to look for the perpetrator. He hadn’t expected to be shot at, but he had been prepared for almost anything.

“Don’t make yourself a target, Titus,” Wren said. “Ryan has already been shot. I don’t want the same to happen to you.”

“Where is he?”

“Near his cruiser. About five miles outside of town. On Mountain Road. My SUV is there. The police shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.”

The faint sound of sirens drifted on the breeze. “It sounds like help is almost here,” she said.

“Wait for them here. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, crawling away, army-style.

“You’re not going to find the shooters. They’re heading back to their vehicle. There’s no way they’re going to wait around for the police to arrive,” she said, shifting into a sitting position.

“Get down,” he barked, fear making his tone harsher than he’d intended.

“I need to get these cuffs off, and I need to get back to my SUV. My cell phone is there. I want to call the FBI Boston Field Office and get some of my colleagues up here.”

“Wren, get down,” he repeated, crossing the distance between them.

“You don’t have any handcuff keys, do you?” she asked, dark strands of hair sliding across her cheek as she tried to get to her feet.