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Standing, Luther watched the Sheriff adjust his hat—the one that wasn’t made of Kevlar—as he called out, “Are you here, Mr. Rutledge?”
Damn fool man, Luther thought, an instant before the gunshot. And an instant before Grant fell out of sight.
Shit! It seemed to have come from above them—through the kitchen window, not from the porch. Luther couldn’t see the Sheriff from this angle and didn’t know if Grant was even moving. But Luther had to. He had to get the girl.
“Stay put,” he told JJ, praying she did as he maneuvered around her.
Luther hurried toward the porch. Assuming the shooter was still inside and was alone (dangerous assumptions), he wouldn’t be exposed until he reached its front corner.
The entry faced forty-five degrees away from the driveway, as though a breeze had bl
