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cident an interrupted theft and the other an accident. But a drive-by shooting in this gingerbread-house neighborhood combined with the other two happenings made D.J. come to a single conclusion: McCall wasn't accident-prone. He wasn't having a run of bad luck. Someone wanted him dead. |
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She heard him get to his feet and move two steps closer until he stood directly behind her. The warmth of his body called out to hers, and despite the severity of their situation she found herself remembering the kiss they'd almost shared only moments before. To stop the traitorous reaction of her body, D.J. turned around and shoved McCall in the shoulder. |
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He ignored her, bending to peer at the bullet hole with a curious frown. "Is that what I think it is?" |
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"You betcha, buster. I want to know why someone's trying to kill you." |
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"Kill me?" He continued to look at the bullet hole, putting his forefinger into the indentation, and then shaking his head in amazement. "Why do you think someone wants to kill me?" |
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"Do you have many drive-by shootings around here? I doubt it. Combined with the black van that ran you off the road last night and the knock you took on the head the night before, in my professional opinion someone's trying to kill you." |
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He glanced over his shoulder with a frown. "Then why didn't they kill me that first night? I was alone, and after they hit me I was out cold." |
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