Then Kevin's voice was behind him, in his ear. "There's a dead woman out back," he said quietly. "Shot in the chest."

Russ thought about hapless, knocked-around Isabel Christie, with her strawberry-blond hair and her sad eyes. What a goddamn waste. He suddenly felt twenty years older.

"Chief?" Kevin kept his voice low.

"Have Harlene patch you to the SWAT team. Brief 'em. Then get ready to run for that vest."

"Roger that." Kevin sprinted for his cruiser, bent double. He flung open the door and lay on the seat, reaching for the mic.

"What's going on?" the Punta Diablo guy asked. "What's he doing on the radio?"

"I just told him to ask the state troopers to stay back a ways," Russ said. "I want you and me to have the time we need to talk our way out of this thing." He kept his face forward and rattled on, good faith, blah-blah-blah, listening as Kevin briefed the state assault team sergeant he'd been connected to. It was informative, detailed, and short. The kid was finally learning to get to the point.

"You tell those bastards to stay away from us," the shooter yelled. "Anybody tries to mess with us, they gotta go through one of these kids to do it!"

Kevin hung up the mic. "Fifteen-twenty minutes."

Shit. Might as well be tomorrow, for all the good they were going to do.

The guy disappeared from the window. Inside the house, a woman screamed. "Knox!" He grabbed his gun off the hood. "What's he doing in there?"

She jumped up like a jackrabbit and looked in the window. Ran to the next one. He flapped at Kevin. "The vest! Go! Go!"

"He's holding a kid," Knox yelled. "He's-oh, shit, no!"

This was going straight down the crapper. "Are there other shooters?"

"I can't tell!" she screamed. "Maybe in the front-"

The window above Knox exploded. She dropped, and for one sickening moment he thought she'd been hit, but then he saw she was crouched, her hands over the back of her neck. Kevin had popped the trunk and was yanking a vest out. "Go through the back," Russ yelled. "Go through the back!"

Kevin waved acknowledgment and tore through the side yard. Knox rose and ran after him. They disappeared around the corner.

"Don't move," Lyle said. "I'm getting you the other one." He raced toward Knox's unit.

Up on the porch, the door flew open. A teenaged girl with a baby under her arm made a dash for it. The shooter lunged forward, long rope-muscled arm extended, and snagged her by her collar. She rebounded, gagged, and almost dropped the baby. Her captor dragged her backward by the neck.

Russ broke cover and ran for the house. Lyle was shouting something at him, but he couldn't hear it over the thudding of his feet, the rasp of his breath, the crying and yelling inside.

He took the porch steps in two strides and slammed through the door with the side of his body, leaving him face-to-face with the open double doors and the wild-eyed shooter, tattooed fingers, just like Knox had said, backing away with a squirming, squalling teen and her baby as a shield.

"Police! Drop your weapon," Russ roared: habit, not hope.

"Drop your weapon!" The Punta Diablo guy had a monster.357 Taurus pointed at the girl. Russ kept his Glock lined and sighted for a head shot. The gangbanger started to look scared. It was damn hard to keep your gun pointed away from a man when you could see his bore drilling you between the eyes.

Then the girl lunged to the side, yanking her captor off balance. His instinct took over; he swung his.357 toward Russ, arms wide, chest unguarded. Russ dropped his Glock three inches and squeezed twice. He dove right as the Magnum went off, but the young man was already crumpling, the gun falling from his tattooed fingers.

The girl and her baby ran screaming into the dining room. Russ hit a brown corduroy chair, the weight of his body skidding it across the floor. He stumbled upright, swung toward where the shooter's body had fallen, saw Isabel Christie sagging, unconscious, against the couch. And then a baseball bat smashed into his chest.

Russ turned, not understanding, and another bat struck his upper thigh, white-hot pain streaking along his hip, and he slipped, his leg useless, and saw him in the doorway to the front hall, the second man. Russ saw the gun pointed at him, tried to raise his Glock, too slow, too slow. Russ squeezed off a round but the next shot punched him in the chest and blew him over.

He heard more shots, three, four, like a movie playing in a different room. His awareness burrowed inward, as if all the universe were six feet three inches long and contained within his skin. Labored breathing. Sluggish heart. Burning hip. Throbbing chest.

Lyle's face dropped into view for a moment. He didn't bother Russ with a lot of talking, just turned and started ripping his uniform blouse open. Lyle. His friend. Why hadn't he forgiven him? Instead of carrying his grudge around like an old set of keys. He closed his eyes.

"Call nine-one-one," Lyle said to someone. Russ's skin was clammy. He shivered convulsively. The wooden floor beneath him was winter-cold.

"Get me something I can use for compresses," Lyle said.

He tried to breathe in, but there was a bubble blocking his throat, like swallowing inside out. He gurgled and hacked.

"Hurry, Knox!" Lyle's hands were cradling his skull, turning his head so he could spit. Liquid gushed out of his mouth. He could breathe again. Lyle's hands went away.

"Oh, Jesus," Knox said. She didn't sound so good.

"Shut up," Lyle said. "Get these civilians out of here."

There were noises, children, but they seemed increasingly far away. The pain was everything. The only thing. He didn't want that. He didn't want that to be the last thing. He opened his eyes. Lyle was on his knees, stripping his belt out of his pants. "Didn't know… you felt that way," Russ managed.

Lyle's hands stuttered for a second. "You should be so lucky," he said. He finished pulling his belt free. "I'm gonna tourniquet your thigh, slow down this bleeding. It's gonna hurt like a ring-tailed bitch." He bent over, out of Russ's line of sight, and then a five-thousand-volt electrical shock went through his leg.

"Je… fu… Chr…" Russ gasped. The pain curled him forward, as if he could rise and escape it. He caught sight of his own chest.

"Lay back," Lyle said. He did. Lyle laid something over his chest. "I'm gonna compress you until the EMTs arrive. Won't be long."

He lifted his hand, stopping Lyle with a strengthless motion. "Lyle." He could feel another bubble rising in his throat. He wanted to say this before it choked him off. "I'm sorry." He opened his hand. "Friend."

Lyle took his hand and squeezed too hard. His face pinched. "I don't wanna hear any goddamn last words or deathbed apologies from you, you hear?"

He tried to say something, but the rushing liquid filled his throat, his mouth, his nose. He turned his head and retched, coughed, spluttered.

As soon as his mouth was clear, Lyle leaned on him, crushing him, hurting him. Russ tried to bat him away but he didn't have anything left. It was heavy, so heavy, like cold concrete burying him. He heaved for air. Lyle was going to suffocate him trying to save him. "Can't… breathe…" he got out.

"I think you've punctured a lung," Lyle said. "The EMTs will set you to rights. Listen." He heard his breath, his heart, his blood taking its last few trips around the system. "They're almost here."

It wasn't Lyle. It was him. He was dying. He thought of Clare. Oh, love. I wish we had had more time. He was going to die, and she would be left with hateful, angry words as their last good-bye. Already forgotten, he wanted to say. I always knew what was in your heart. Now, right now, the slate was wiped clean.

"Lyle… tell Clare…" He struggled to get enough air to push out the words. "Tell her…"