Mason hissed Mickey's name, but the sound died in the wind. Mason remembered Mickey's announcement as he got out of the car. Wingman on your flank, Mickey had said. Mason silently cursed himself for getting Mickey involved. A moment later, he cursed aloud when he saw Mickey emerge from the woods closest to the shelter, being pushed ahead by a tall figure poking Mickey in the back with a shotgun. Mickey stumbled and fell. The gunman prodded him with the barrel of the shotgun until Mickey got to his feet.

As the pair reached the shelter, the light came on again. In the instant before the gunman smashed the light, Mason saw Mickey's panicked face and the block-cut jawline of James Toland.

Fiora started toward the shelter, but Mason grabbed him by the arm. "Don't," Mason told him. "That's exactly what they want you to do. They'll try to take us one at a time. Mickey can handle himself."

Mason knew that he was right about everything except Mickey. The kid could deal cards, field-strip a pistol, and hustle a rent-free pad, but Mason knew he was out of his league against Toland. Besides, sending Fiora to bail out Mickey was like telling the Dutch boy to put a bigger finger in the dike. Without Tony to back him up, Fiora was just a street-wise punk. Toland wouldn't be impressed.

Fiora puffed himself up, as if sensing Mason's dismissive appraisal. "Why not? I'm the guy they're expecting. If I don't go, they'll know they're being set up. I'll tell Toland that the kid is my driver and that he wandered off. You go find Tony and Blues."

Mason couldn't argue with Fiora's reasoning or stop him. Fiora chose a slow, casual walk, raising his right hand in greeting as he neared the shelter. Mickey and Toland were hidden in plain sight under the shelter, swallowed by the dark. When Fiora reached the edge of the shelter, he suddenly collapsed to the ground. Mason couldn't tell whether he'd been shot or struck, but Fiora didn't move as the snow gathered around him.

In the same instant, Mason felt the icy sting of cold steel against his neck. "I had a feeling you were in on this, Mason." Carl Zimmerman pressed the barrel of his gun tightly against the base of Mason's skull. "You should have told your client to take the plea."

Chapter Thirty-four

Zimmerman jammed his gun hard against Mason's neck. "Hands behind your back," he ordered.

Mason knew that Zimmerman was going to cuff him, taking him out of the game. He had size on Zimmerman, but Zimmerman had a gun on Mason's brain stem. Mason obeyed, and winced when Zimmerman caught his flesh in the cuffs.

"Stand real still," Zimmerman instructed. Keeping his gun in place, Zimmerman patted the pockets on Mason's coat and found his pistol. "Hope you've got a permit for this concealed weapon, Counselor. Otherwise, I'll have to issue you a citation."

"You shouldn't have lied about the body in Swope Park," Mason told him. "Otherwise, you might have gotten away with it."

"I'm getting away with it now," Zimmerman told him.

"You killed Cullan, forged Blues's fingerprint, stole Cullan's secret files, and killed Shirley Parker. That's a lot to get away with."

"You don't know shit," Zimmerman told him. "And I didn't kill anybody. At least not yet."

"It doesn't matter what I know. Harry knows you used Blues's fingerprint in his personnel file to forge the one on Cullan's desk. That will be enough for him. He'll hunt you down like a dog. You won't be able to use Cullan's files to wipe your ass."

Zimmerman spat into the snow. "Ryman's too old and too slow."

"We'll put that on your tombstone," Mason said.

Zimmerman gave Mason a sharp shove in the small of the back. "Move it," he snapped.

Mason marched toward the shelter, squinting against the snow. There was no sign of Tony or Blues. Fiora was still down. Zimmerman shoved Mason again as they stepped beneath the shelter, knocking him into Mickey, who was handcuffed and sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shelter. It was too dark to see Mickey clearly, but it was enough for Mason to know that he was there and still breathing.

Toland pressed the barrel of his shotgun under Mason's chin, dragging it down to Mason's chest until Mason joined Mickey. Toland crouched down to Mason's eye level, keeping the shotgun flush against Mason. Mason smiled inwardly at the trickle of blood frozen on the side of Toland's face.

"Cut yourself shaving?" he asked Toland.

"That big moose you had chasing us in the woods scratches like a girl. I had to damn near kill him just so I could tie him to a tree. Don't make me tie you to a tree."

Zimmerman said, "We've got these three. Tony is out of commission, which leaves Bluestone," Zimmerman said to Toland.

The shelter was suddenly flooded with high-beam head- lights coming from an approaching vehicle. The lights blinded Mason's view of the vehicle and its driver.

"Who in the hell is that?" Toland yelled.

The vehicle was coming at them from the west on Gregory Boulevard and was aiming directly at them as it picked up speed over the fresh snow. The engine was revving hard as if the driver had floored the accelerator.

"Damn!" Zimmerman shouted. "That's my Suburban."

"It's got to be Bluestone," Toland said. "He's going to ram us. Shoot him!"

Toland fired his shotgun, pumped, and fired three more rounds while Zimmerman emptied his clip into the Suburban. Mason and Mickey jumped to their feet and ran to Fiora. Crouching down with their hands behind their backs, they each grabbed Fiora by the shoulders and dragged him out of the path of the Suburban.

The windshield on the Suburban shattered, but the truck roared on like an enraged beast made angrier by the gunfire, crunching and packing the snow beneath its tires, oblivious of the barrage of firepower. Zimmerman and Toland leaped out of the way at the last moment as the Suburban crashed into one of the poles supporting the shelter, toppling the roof. The car flew past them, becoming airborne before plunging headfirst into the lagoon, sizzling and bubbling as it found the muddy bottom.

Harry and Blues had been following on foot behind the Suburban. Blues ran low and straight at Toland, colliding with him and rolling across the snow. Toland managed to get to his feet first while Blues was on one knee. Toland launched a booted kick at Blues's head. Blues caught Toland's boot and sprang up, sending Toland tumbling onto his back.

The power line had snapped off the roof of the shelter with the impact from the Suburban, its deadly blue current dancing and writhing across the snow, measuring Toland like a cobra as he struggled to get to his feet. Toland slipped in the snow, clawed at the ground on all fours, and screamed as the power line stung him with a lethal jolt. The power line lay across Toland's electrocuted body as the snow sizzled around him.

Zimmerman was in a shooter's crouch, knees bent, arms extended, aiming Mason's gun in a rapid arc, looking for a target. Harry tackled him from behind, flattening him against the pavement and pressing his face into the snow. He planted his knee in the middle of Zimmerman's back and wrapped his hand around Zimmerman's gun hand, forcing the barrel against Zimmerman's ear.

"Pull the trigger, you piece of garbage. Blow your fucking brains out!" Harry screamed. "Pull it, goddammit! Pull it!"

Blues ran to Harry's side, reached down, and covered Harry's hand with his own. "Let it go, Harry. You got him. Let it go," he said.

Harry was heaving. "Okay," he said at last. "Okay." Harry cuffed Zimmerman. "Don't move, partner," Harry told him.

Mason looked at the lagoon, where the back end of the Suburban barely broke above water. He staggered to his feet and made his way over to Blues and Harry.