Nowhere Pure (A Harley Cole FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 8) by Kate Bold

Author:Kate Bold [Bold, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2023-04-27T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Cole ducked against the Jeep, drawing her sidearm as she peered up at the hills in search of the shooter.

“Where is he?” she shouted to Callaway.

“I don’t know!” he called back.

A moment later, Callaway appeared at the back of the Jeep, moving at a low crouch. He stopped by the rear tire and leaned against the frame of the vehicle.

“What was that?” he asked. “An AR?”

Cole thought back to the sound of the gunshot. “Yeah, could’ve been.”

As if to confirm Callaway’s guess, another shot rang out, echoing across the hills. Cole flinched, imagining herself in the crosshairs of a shooter’s rifle. But where was he? She had seen no muzzle flash, heard no impact from the bullet. She began to suspect the shooter wasn’t particularly good at aiming.

Then there was a third gunshot, followed immediately by the high ringing of metal. As the report faded, Cole heard laughter.

She glanced at Callaway, who was frowning at her, looking as puzzled as she felt.

“They’re not shooting at us,” she said, shaking her head in surprise. “It sounds like they’re behind the camper.”

“Then we’d better go see what they are shooting at,” Callaway said, rising.

Cole kept her gun at the ready as she approached the corner of the camper. She moved slowly, listening carefully for the sound of laughter again, but it did not come. For a moment, she thought she heard the murmur of voices carried on the wind, then another rifle shot shattered the silence.

There was no ringing of metal this time. Cole did, however, see a plume of dust kick up a few hundred yards behind the camper. It looked at first glance as if an obstacle course had been set up back there: stacks of tires, scraps of plywood propped up and tacked with paper targets that had curled in the heat, a large piece of rusted piping.

That last item seemed to be the source of the sound Cole had heard earlier.

Doesn’t this fool know what a ricochet is? She thought. She had stories of people who had been injured by ricochets after shooting steel targets hundreds of yards downrange. It might be statistically unlikely, but it only needed to happen once to threaten someone’s life.

Cole paused at the corner of the camper and peeked around the back. She spotted a pair of picnic tables, one of which was laden with a bonanza of rifles, shotguns, and handguns, along with boxes of ammunition. At the other table sat a man with a rifle, which he rested on the table as he aimed down the sights. Behind him, two bearded men, one wearing sunglasses and the other wearing a sweat-stained bucket hat, looked on with crossed arms.

Cole pulled back, getting behind cover again. “We’ve got three men,” she whispered to Callaway. “One at a table with a rifle, two standing behind him.”

“Armed?” Callaway asked.

“Their hands are empty, but that table is packed to the gills.”

Her heart kept up a steady thrumming in her chest. She knew that if they

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