Kendall opened his eyes uncertainly, looking for blood and waiting for the excruciating pain, but he found himself whole and unharmed. The bullet never found its mark. Someone must have taken the hit for him—a person or one of the dogs in the passing pack. That was the only explanation. But the only one on the ground besides him was Owens himself.
McGreary appeared at Kendall’s side as his soldiers surrounded Owens and confiscated his weapon.
“Where are you hit?” he asked, breathless.
“I’m… not.”
“Are you wearing a flak jacket?”
Kendall shook his head.
“He was five feet in front of you.”
“I know.”
“So where the hell did that bullet go?” McGreary struggled to answer his own question. “He went down just as he fired. He tripped? Or something bumped him and he aimed high?”
“I don’t know.” Kendall looked around; wherever the bullet had gone, it hadn’t hit anyone else, thank God.
“You sure have some damn good luck,” McGreary said, pulling him to his feet.