“Phil!”

The footsteps got closer. Behind the door Hauck gripped his Sig, pressing the muzzle up against his cheek. The machine continued to print. He couldn’t stop it! Think, think, what to do?

Hauck froze at the creak of a nearby floorboard as whoever it was came around the corner. He peeked inside the office. Hauck held, rigid as a board.

“Phil, I didn’t know you were here…”

The man paused, remaining in the doorway. The pages continued to feed into the machine one by one.

Hauck held his breath. Shit…

A second later the heavy office door slammed into his chest, taking him by surprise, the Sig flying out of his hand.

Hauck’s eyes darted after the gun, the door barreling into him again, striking him in the side of the head, dazing him, the gun clattering across the floor.

The man crashed the door into Hauck one more time, this time following it into the room, mashing Hauck’s right hand in the hinge. Hauck finally threw the brunt of his weight against it and rammed it back with all his might, sending the man reeling into the room.

The man had close-cropped hair and a large nose, his cheek bloodied from the blow. He glared at Hauck. “What the hell are you doing here? Who the fuck are you?”

Hauck stared back. He realized he had seen him before.

The second witness. The guy in a warm-up jacket at AJ Raymond’s hit-and-run. A track coach or something.

Hodges.

Their eyes met in a stunned, glaring gaze.

Hodges’s eyes were equally as wide. “You!”

Hauck’s glance darted toward the gun on the floor, as Hodges took the nearest thing available, a decorative scrimshaw horn Dietz kept on a side table, and lunged in Hauck’s direction, slashing the sharp point of the horn through Hauck’s sweatshirt and tearing into his skin.

Hauck cried out. The horn dug through his chest, his ribs on fire.

Hodges slashed at him again, Hauck flailing desperately for the other man’s arm to block the blow, pinning it back, while Hodges pushed with all his might with his other hand against Hauck’s neck.

He kneed Hauck sharply in the side of his chest, his wound.

“Aaagh!”

“What are you doing here?” Hodges screamed at him again.

“I know,” Hauck grunted back. “I know what’s happened.” Blood seeped through the ripped, damp fabric of his sweatshirt. “It’s over, Hodges. I know about the hit-and-runs.”

Straining, Hauck forced back his attacker’s fingers, reaching for the handle of the horn. It fell, skidding away.

Hauck faced him, clutching his side. “I know they were set up. I know they were done to protect Charles Friedman and Dolphin Oil. The police are on the way.” He was still dazed from the first blows, short of breath. His neck was raw and throbbing where Hodges had squeezed it. “You’re done, man.”

“Police…” Hodges echoed skeptically. “So who the fuck are you, the advance guard?”

Eyes ablaze, he darted to the fireplace and grabbed an iron poker there and swung it at Hauck as hard as he could, narrowly missing his head by inches and striking into the wall behind him, shards of dug-out plaster splintering over the floor.

Hauck dove headfirst into him, knocking Hodges back against the desk, heavy books and photos tumbling all over them, the printer crashing down from the shelf.

They rolled onto the floor, Hodges coming up on top. He was strong. Maybe a few years back Hauck could’ve taken him, but he was still dazed from the body blows of the door and the gash on his side. Hodges fought like he had nothing to lose. He kneed Hauck deeply in the groin, sending the air rushing out of him, and grabbed the iron poker lengthwise with both hands, pinned it across Hauck’s chest like a vise, forcing it into the nook of his neck.

Hauck gagged, sucking in a desperate breath.

“You think we did it to protect him?” Hodges said, squeezing him, his face turning red. “You don’t know a fucking thing.” He continued to press the poker into the cavity of Hauck’s neck. Hauck felt his airway closing on him, a clawing tightness taking over his lungs. Intensifying. He tried to roll his attacker off, knee him, but he was pinned and the iron rod was squeezing the life out of him. He felt the blood rush into his face, his strength waning, his lungs about to burst.

Hodges was going to kill him.

Straining, he tried with everything he had to push the poker back. His breath was desperate, his lungs clutching for blocked air. The blood was almost bursting through his head.

That’s when he felt the hard mound of the gun pressing sharply into his back. Hodges had him pinned, but somehow Hauck forced a shoulder up and reached, one arm dangling back, the other vainly trying to pry Hodges’s grip away from his throat. Fingers grasping, Hauck found the warm steel of the muzzle, spun it around under his body for the grip.

“Stop,” he gasped, “lemme talk. Stop.”

“How did you get here?” Hodges shouted at him. “How did you find out?” It was as if an iron hoe were being clawed inside Hauck’s throat. Finally he managed to wrap his fingers around the Sig’s handle. With the gun still underneath his body, he maneuvered it around.

“How?” Hodges demanded, pinning Hauck’s legs with his thighs and pressing the last gulps of air out of his chest.

All Hauck could do was raise himself ever so slightly, creating the tiniest space for him to slide his gun hand around, as Hodges now saw what he was attempting. And so, exerting himself even harder, he pinned Hauck’s arm back with his knee, jamming the poker tighter into his larynx.

Hauck’s lungs were about to explode.

His shoulder was pressed back so tightly there was no way he could aim. He managed to wrap his finger around the trigger, but the muzzle was jammed in against his body. He had no idea where it was even pointed, only that his strength was waning, his air disappearing… No more time.

He braced for the explosion in his side.

And fired-a muffled, close-in pop.

Hauck felt a jolt. The concussive shock seemed to reverberate inside both of their bodies. He tensed, expecting the rush of pain.

None came.

On top of him, Hodges grimaced. The iron rod was still pressed into Hauck’s neck.

There was a sharp smell of cordite in Hauck’s nostrils. Slowly, the pressure on his throat released.

Hodges’s eyes went to his side. Hauck saw an enlarging flower of red oozing from under his shirt there. Hodges straightened, his hand reaching to his side, and drew it back, smeared with blood.

“Sonofafucking bitch…” he groaned.

Hauck pushed his legs, and, glazy-eyed, Hodges rolled off him. Heaving, Hauck gulped precious, needed air deep into his lungs. His side felt on fire. There was blood all over him-whose, he wasn’t sure. Hodges crawled his way to the door.

“It’s over,” Hauck gasped, staring over at him, barely able to point his gun.

Clumsily, Hodges dragged himself up. A damp scarlet blotch seeped out of his shirt. He clamped it with his hand. “You don’t have a fucking clue,” he said, coughing back a heavy laugh.

He winced. Stood there, waiting for Hauck to pull the trigger. Exhausted, Hauck could barely raise the gun.

“You’re dead! You don’t know it yet, but you’re dead.” Hodges glared at him. “You have no idea who you’re fucking with!”

Hunched over, he staggered out of the room. Hauck could do nothing to stop him. It took everything he had just to pull himself up, coughing air back into his obstructed air pipe, his clothes drenched in sweat. He lurched outside after Hodges, clutching his ribs. Everything had gone wrong. He heard the sound of Hodges’s truck starting up, spotted droplets of blood leading off the porch to the driveway.

“Hodges!” Hauck came down the steps and leveled his gun at the truck. It backed out of the driveway and sped off down the road. Hauck took aim at the rear tires, his finger pulsed. “Stop!” he called after him. Stop. He didn’t even hear his own voice.