Alex gets to the Bronco, tries the driver’s-side door. Locked. She runs around to the back, and Phin closes the distance, hands out in front of him, leaning on the truck’s hood when he gets there, taking big gulps of air so he doesn’t throw up.

The rear door must be locked as well, because Alex sprints away without getting inside, running across the lawn and blending into the night. Phin is too wiped out to follow.

Gunshots. From Jack’s house. Phin sees the two men bust in the front entrance. He watches them walk inside, sees the lights go on.

Sees nothing happen.

Alex’s trap is bullshit after all.

Phin puts his face up to the tinted glass of the front window, tries to get a look inside the truck. There’s a rifle in the front seat, a big one with a scope. He does a quick 180, scanning the ground for a brick or rock or something to break the windshield. There’s nothing but grass.

Phin puts his back against the driver’s door, clenches his hands, and fires his left elbow backward against the glass, like a piston. He does it once, twice, three times, hard as he can.

The window remains intact.

He wants to try it again, but he can’t – he’s pretty sure he just broke his elbow.

11:46 P.M.

KORK

THE FRESH AIR FEELS GOOD. Liberating. The rhythmic slap of my feet hitting the ground, the stretch of my muscles, the wind on my cheeks. I bet I could run five miles without breaking a sweat.

Phin is behind me, but he gives up when he reaches the truck. Wimp. I should have beaten him to death while we were in the garage.

No biggie. There’s still time.

I’m running so fast I almost miss the rifle. It’s on a grassy hill, only a few yards off the road. I sprint to it, slide alongside like I’m stealing second base, and snatch it up in my hands.

It’s a beauty. Bolt action, suppressor, bipod, night-vision scope, cheek pad, palm support, padded butt plate. A better weapon than the M40A1 rifle I trained with in the corps. I get behind it, assume the position, load a round, and point it back at the Bronco. Phin is crouching next to the side door. An easy target. I consider putting a round through his leg, but notice he’s cradling his elbow, already hurt.

I’ll get to him in a minute.

I swing the barrel around, aiming at Jack’s house. I can see Harry through the front bay window, sitting on the floor and clutching his hose. Those two sniper idiots, standing there, pointing their guns. The trap must have tripped the circuit breaker. I figured it might do that. They should have held the breaker button in and kept it there; then the current would have kept flowing. But I saw no reason to share that little tip.

I nudge the rifle. There’s Jack. She actually has her hands up over her head. Like she’s surrendering.

As if that’s going to help her.

“You are dust,” I say, quoting Scripture. “And to dust you shall return.”

My Bible-thumping father would have been proud I remembered that. I grin, caress the trigger, and fire.

11:46 P.M.

PESSOLANO

“HOLD ON. We’re on the same side.”

The woman cop is standing a few feet away, her hands raised. Pessolano can’t make out her face in the dark, but her voice is strong and sure.

Pessolano doesn’t feel strong or sure. After chasing that blond guy through the woods, he’s exhausted. He’s also cold and wet, having just been squirted with a hose. Part of him knows that he needs to kill everyone in the house, then get out of there. But another part, a bigger part, is having some difficulty. Shooting someone from a few hundred yards away feels detached, kind of like playing a video game. The distance is emotional as well as physical. Shooting someone at point-blank range, someone with her hands up, someone surrendering – that’s more like murder than war.

“You’re called The Urban Hunting Club, right?” she says. “You kill perverts. I’m a cop. I kill perverts too. We’re both fighting for the same cause.”

Munchel isn’t shooting her either. Pessolano wonders if he shares the same doubts. If he thinks this might be wrong too.

“You got nice legs,” Munchel says to the cop. He sounds breathy, excited.

Pessolano stares at Munchel. His friend has a wild look in his eyes. A scary look.

“Thank you,” the cop says. “You’re the one from Ravenswood.”

“Yeah,” Munchel answers. “Did you like that? You almost got me a few times. You ever in the military?”

“No. Just the police.”

Munchel takes a step closer to the cop. “You nailed Swanson right in the heart. He died in a whole mess of pain.”

“You gave me the rifle.”

“I wanted it to be a fair fight.”

“Would killing me now be a fair fight? I don’t have a gun.”

Munchel licks his lips. “Maybe I’m not thinking of killing you right now. Maybe I’m thinking of something else.”

Pessolano stares at the cop. She does have nice legs. And to the victor, the spoils.

Right?

The man on the floor, the one holding the hose, clears his throat. Munchel points his gun at him.

“You got something to say, tough guy?” Munchel demands.

“If you do anything to my sister,” he says, “would you mind if I took a few pictures?”

Munchel begins to laugh. Pessolano starts to laugh too, but instead he starts to choke.

What the hell?

Pessolano cups his hands to his throat, vaguely aware that he just heard a gunshot.

I just got shot. Who shot me?

When Pessolano pulls his hands away, they’re filled with blood. And something else. Something stringy that looks like a peach pit.

It’s my Adam’s apple.

Pessolano drops to his knees. He glances at Munchel, who is looking back at him, mouth hanging open, eyes wide.

Behind Munchel, Pessolano sees the man on the floor lifting up a big board. No – it’s a refrigerator door. The man rams the door into Munchel, driving him across the room and up against a wall.

Pessolano turns, sees the female cop running away, toward the garage.

Pessolano looks down, watches the fountain of blood raining in front of him, aware that it’s coming from his neck.

Pessolano tries to take a breath, but his throat is blocked.

There’s no pain. Only that same sense of detachment, as if this is happening to someone else.

Then, another shot.

Pessolano feels it burn right through his right thigh, snapping the bone in half.

He falls forward.

Now there’s pain.

Soul-searing, unbearable pain.

Pessolano tries to scream. Has to scream. But his clogged throat won’t let him.

Another bullet.

The other leg.

Pessolano writhes on the floor, his brain overloading on unbearable agony. Agony that can’t possibly get worse.

The next bullet blows off a good chunk of his arm.

The agony gets worse.

Pessolano is beyond reason now. Detachment has led to the keenest sense of self-awareness he’s ever experienced. He exists now only as raw, exposed nerve endings, millions of them firing at once.

When his other arm gets shattered by a bullet, his body finally diverts its remaining resources to Pessolano’s brain, giving him a brief moment of lucidity. A flood of thoughts assault him:

Please let me die.

Shoot me in the head.

Make the pain stop.

And then he thinks of something odd. Incongruous.

If they made a plastic green army man toy that looked like I do now, maybe I would have followed a different path.

That’s the thought bouncing around in his skull as his life blessedly fades away.