He stayed that way for a moment, breathing in, filling his lungs. Then he let go of the branch, pushed the strap back up his shoulder, kept going.

She worked the key in the lock and the cuff came loose, the shiny metal smeared with her blood. She tossed the cuffs away, saw the cuts left on her wrist.

Billy’s eyes were open, his chest rising and falling slowly. She’d taken the lamp from the crate, set it beside him.

“It’ll be okay,” she said. “An ambulance is coming. It’s on its way. You’re going to be all right.”

He half-smiled at her and then coughed, pearls of blood on his lips. She put a palm on his face, and he laid a bloody hand over it, held it.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said and felt the wetness in her eyes spill onto her cheeks.

She watched the light go out of his eyes, a soft breath escape his lips. His eyes half closed, as if he’d grown drowsy without warning. His hand slipped from hers. She knew he was gone.

Morgan reached the first service road sooner than he expected. The vehicle was still there, in front of the shacks, and he saw now it was the woman’s Blazer. He thought about shooting out a tire, but there was no time to waste. Others would be here soon. He had what he’d come for.

The pain was still sharp in his stomach, but the dizziness seemed to be gone. His skin felt cool where the sweat had dried.

He pushed through trees, undergrowth, branches snagging at the bag. Twice he had to stop to pull it loose. Then the trees thinned, moonlight shining through, and he was at the second road. He started down it, saw the outline of the Lexus. The driver’s side door was open, the interior light on. He saw the dreadlocked boy sprawled there, half in the car, half on the road, trying to pull himself up onto the seat, his face dark with blood. Morgan raised the Beretta.

Sara could hear sirens far away. She knelt on the concrete beside him, his face turned to the side, his chest still. She’d checked his carotid pulse twice, known what she would find.

She stood, wiped her bloody hands on her jeans. The sirens grew louder.

He’s still out there, somewhere close. Maybe waiting to open fire on them when they get here. They could be driving right into it, not knowing.

She could stay here, let him get away. Let the danger pass. No one would blame her.

She knelt again, reached beneath Billy, felt his warmth, gently tugged the Glock from his belt.

She fumbled with bolts at the front door, pushed against rusty hinges to get it open. She went out into moonlight, a wide clearing. A figure in a ski mask lay sprawled in the dirt, face up, not moving. She pointed the Glock at him as she went past.

At the metal frame gate, she bent, squeezed through the horizontal bars. Then she was on the service road, moving up it with the Glock in a two-handed grip in front of her. She saw the Blazer ahead, went around it to make sure no one was there. She looked at the dirt and saw no tire tracks other than her own.

He didn’t walk here. He’s got a vehicle someplace.

Her tac bag was in the backseat where she’d left it. She got the Kevlar vest out, pulled it on over her sweatshirt, worked the Velcro snaps.

Then, in the distance, she heard the single gunshot.

THIRTY-ONE

Morgan stepped over the body, started down the road to the Monte Carlo. He could hear far-off sirens.

When he reached the car, he decocked the Beretta, pushed it into his belt, got the keys out, dropped them. He felt fresh sweat on his forehead, a growing pain in his stomach. He bent, picked up the keys, and the vertigo hit him. He fell against the side of the car, put a hand on the fender to steady himself.

Not now, he thought. You need to keep moving. You need to get out of here.

He got the driver’s side door open, set the gearbag on the seat, pushed it over as he got behind the wheel. He fumbled with the keys, his fingers unresponsive, dropped them again. He got the ignition key in, pulled the door shut. He ground the starter on the first try, got it going on the second.

The road was too narrow to turn around, and he couldn’t risk backing up all the way down to the highway. He set the Beretta on the seat, pulled ahead. There was a clearing past the Lexus, enough room to make a three-point turn, face back the other way.

He swung left, cleared the car and the body, trees scratching the driver’s side. He turned the Monte Carlo across the road, reversed until his rear bumper crunched into undergrowth. He had to do it twice more to bring the car’s nose around.

Lights off, he looked past the Lexus, down the length of the moonlit road to the highway beyond.

Sara gunned it, driving with the windows down, listening over the sound of the engine, the growing sirens. The Glock was on the seat beside her. In the rearview, she could see two bloody fingerprints on her cheek.

Then she saw the second service road ahead, started to brake. That was where the shot would have come from, where the vehicle would be. The only place.

She barely made the turn, tires squealing, kicking up dust as she took the hard right. The Blazer clattered over the canal bridge, and the Glock flew from the seat onto the floor. She hit the gas, switched on her high beams, roared up the narrow service road. Then she saw the car.

Morgan looked at the onrushing headlights, hit the brakes hard. The Monte Carlo’s nose dipped, and the gearbag rolled off the seat and thumped on the floor.

He slammed the shifter into reverse, hit the gas, backed up toward the Lexus. The headlights came toward him. He thought about abandoning the car, heading out on foot. He wouldn’t get far carrying the bag, though, and he’d come too far, done too much, to leave it.

He braked, the car rocking, shoved it into park, gripped the Beretta, and opened the door.

She saw the face through the windshield, knew it was him. She slowed, but he was reversing now, back up the road. She followed him, and then he braked hard and she had to do the same. The Blazer came to a stop about ten feet away, their grilles pointing at each other, dust swirling in her headlights.

She moved without thinking, got the Glock from the floor, pushed the driver’s side door open, saw Morgan getting out, ready to run. But then he was leaning across the roof, aiming a gun at her, using the car for cover, and she crouched behind the door, the Glock in a two-handed grip over the top of it.

“Police! Don’t move!”

He looked at her. The sirens were louder, closer.

You could shoot him now. He has a weapon. He killed Billy. Do it.

Her finger tightened on the trigger but didn’t squeeze. He watched her, his gun not moving.

“Drop the weapon,” she said. “Now.”

When he spoke, his voice was calm. “You need to get out from there,” he said, “and get out of my way.”

She realized then why he’d backed up. The Blazer would have blocked the narrow road, but as he’d reversed she’d followed him into a wider clearing. There was room to get around her now, past her. If she’d stopped farther down the road, he’d have been trapped.

Too late now.

“Put that weapon down,” she said.

“I don’t want to shoot you, woman. If I did, I would have done it back there. Or let those other boys get you. But I let you be.”

She was breathing shallowly, starting to hyperventilate. She tried to control it, steadied the Glock. She looked back toward the refinery, saw flashing emergency lights turning down the service road there.

“Just you and me,” he said. “Nobody’s going to save you. And nobody has to get hurt. Just get out of my way.”