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Shea and Wendy dropped to the ground.
“s**t, that hurts,” Wendy said under her breath.
“You hit?” Shea looked her over but didn’t see any fresh blood.
Wendy shook her head, eyes closed. “No, but I landed on my chest.”
“This is why I didn’t want you picking flowers. Fields like this aren’t left unguarded. Now follow me and keep low. And try not to bump any of the plants.”
Someone shouted in Spanish from the other side of the field, maybe fifty yards away. Shea couldn’t make out the words, but from the tone of his voice, he was pissed. She crept along the row of flowers to the southern end of the field, hoping the poppies would give them enough cover to reach the trees. Another shot whizzed overhead.
“f**k,” Shea muttered. “He’s getting closer.”
“You’ve got a g*n. Shoot him.”
“Ye
