For several seconds I concentrate on breathing. My mind begins to clear. The memory of the shooting replays in my head like some bad movie. The kind where the idiot cop screws up and gets what he’s got coming. Only this time that idiot cop is me. I’d expected one accomplice tonight, not two. A stupid mistake that would have killed me if I hadn’t been wearing the vest. Of course the night isn’t over.
I’m wheezing like an asthmatic. An involuntary groan grinds from my throat when I roll over and take a quick physical inventory of my injuries. Broken ribs. Maybe a collapsed lung. My shoulders and arms are bleeding. My face and neck sting, and I realize belatedly the wounds on my arms are from shotgun pellets. Not life-threatening, but I’m in a world of hurt. Worse, I’m in danger of Barbereaux returning to finish the job.
Where the hell is he?
Pain surges when I move my arms down to my sides. For several seconds, I can’t draw a breath. A cry escapes me when I push myself to a sitting position. I grapple in my pocket for my lapel mike, but it’s gone. My cell phone is gone. So is the .38. Lifting my dress, I glance at the leather holster at my thigh. Relief snaps through me when I see the .22. Whimpering with pain, I slide the weapon from its nest, pull back the hammer.
That’s when it strikes me that Warner is gone. I glance over where I last saw him. A flicker of lightning reveals a puddle of blood and a single long smear, as if someone stepped in it and slid. That’s when I hear voices coming from the living room twenty feet away.
“I need to get to the hospital. I’m in a bad way.”
“Hang tight, partner. I know a doctor in Wooster. He owes me. He’ll fix you up.”
The shuffle of shoes tells me someone’s coming my way. Grinding my teeth in pain, I quickly lay back down in the same position. But I keep my hand on the .22. It’s a small revolver, but it’s not so small that if they looked closely they wouldn’t see it.
“Fuckin’ bitch cop.”
“She’s dead,” Warner croaks. “Let’s go.”
Something hard rams my shoulder, jarring my chest. An involuntary groan squeezes from my throat. I don’t dare open my eyes. But he kicks me again, and I look up at him.
Barbereaux smiles down at me. “I bet you think you’re real fuckin’ smart, don’t you?” He points my .38 at my face.
I’ve never felt so utterly helpless in my life. “Don’t do this.” I look at Warner. His face is ghastly white. Sweat coats his forehead. Blood covers the front of his shirt. He’s holding his abdomen, listing, clutching the counter to remain standing. “He’s going to kill you,” I tell him.
“Shut up!” Barbereaux looks at Warner. “Don’t listen to her.” His eyes skate back to mine, his lips curling into a snarl. “I don’t believe you about the trap. I’m only going to ask you this one time before I start putting holes in you, so listen good. You got that?”
I nod.
“Where’s that fuckin’ Amish kid?”
For a crazy instant I consider trying to get both of them with the .22. Empty the cylinder. Five shots. Hope for the best. My marksmanship skills are good, but I know my broken ribs will affect my speed. Wait for a better opportunity. Keep him talking.
“I wasn’t lying.” My voice comes out like a croak.
His mouth tightens into an ugly line. “Wrong answer.” With the speed of a striking snake, he shifts the gun left. The explosion rocks my brain. The pain is like a wood chipper chewing up my left arm. I hear a scream that goes on and on, realize belatedly it’s mine.
Whimpering, I look down. Blood gushes from my left forearm, a few inches below my elbow. The fabric of my dress is soaked. Pain and shock punch my brain, Mike Tyson in a murderous rage and taking care of business.
“Where’s the fucking kid?” he screams.
“Safe house!” I choke out the lie with the vehemence of truth. It’s all I can manage. The pain is overwhelming. Unbearable heat envelops my face. Dizziness crashes down on me. Nausea seesaws in my gut. Don’t pass out . . .
“Where?” he says, calmer now.
Air rushes between my clenched teeth. Every breath rips me in two. I’m pretty sure the bullet broke my arm. I feel shock descending. But in that moment all I can think is that I still have the .22.
“You think I’m not serious about filling you full of holes, you bitch cop?” he says.
“Don’t do it,” I choke.
“How about if I show you just how fuckin’ serious I am?”
Before I can respond, he shifts the gun. I brace. Reflex nearly causes me to bring up the .22, but I hold it steady in my right hand. If he breaks my right arm, I’m as good as dead.
Instead, he levels the weapon at Warner and fires. The bullet blows a hole the size of a dime in the other man’s forehead. Warner’s head snaps back. A surprised expression crosses his face. And then he drops like a rock.
Another layer of shock whips through me. I stare at the dead man, watch the blood spread into a pool on the floor.