back.
He forced himself to his knees and ripped his gun from his holster.
He crept behind the oil drum, facing the pines. He peered into the dark wall trying to slow his racing heart. Slowly, he realized the pain in his back was not getting worse. Christ, the vest! The bullet had hit the vest. But Ollie had a vest, too. Why hadn’t he answered?
Edna’s voice crackled over the radio, still trying to raise Ollie. Another rifle shot zinged overhead and snapped branches far to his right.
“Central,” he said. “Sniper fire. Repeat, sniper fire, no visual, no visual.”
“L-11, what is your location?”
“Road 329…in a field. We’re separated!” His voice sounded hollow, almost feeble. The sound of it sent a spasm of terror through him. He was scared. Jesus, he was so scared.
Edna called to Ollie. “Advise code-4, Loon-8.”
Louis stared at the radio. “C’mon, man, answer,” he whispered.
Edna came back to Louis. “Loon-11, what is your condition?”
“I’m okay! I’m okay!”
“What is your proximity to Loon-8?”
“I…about eighty feet.”
Louis took a deep breath, his heart pounding. He wiped his face, keeping his eyes trained on the trees.
“Loon-11, advise. How many shots fired?”
“Three…no, four!”
“Do you have a direction of fire?”
Louis looked at the trees to his left. “Shots fired from the east, Central. It’s quiet now.”
“Can you determine shooter’s location?”
Louis wet his lips. “Negative. Negative.”
Edna came back, her voice steady but underscored with fear. “Loon-11, be advised Loon-5 and 6 are 10-8. ETA seven minutes.”
Visions of the shooter ambushing the units raged in his head. He wanted to scream into the radio but he forced his words out slowly. “Central, repeat, no location on shooter. Advise all units to proceed with caution.”
The oil drum at his back was hot, but he shivered as the wind swirled the snow around him. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, his fingers tingling. He had to get back to the cruiser.
The fire in the oil drum was slowly dying out, but he needed the cover of darkness. He scooped up two handfuls of snow and tossed it in the drum. The fire sizzled and died.
He began to creep on his knees, his eyes probing the darkness, his ears pricked for anything that moved. His bare hands grew numb as he inched through the snow toward the cruiser. He kept waiting for more shots. He knew that even in the darkness he had to be visible, his uniform dark against the snow.
A rustle of brittle branches drifted to him from his left. He froze. The sound came again, farther away this time. Then he saw him, just a flash of movement near the road. He was coming from the eastern trees, visible only for a second as the red and blue lights of the cruiser swept over him. Then he was gone.
Louis struggled to his feet and started running.
The lights caught the figure again as he emerged from the brush and crossed the road. He was only twenty yards away, angling away from Louis. He carried a long, dark object. A rifle.
The man moved quickly, expertly, through the white beams of the cruiser’s headlights, then disappeared behind it.
Louis froze, thrusting his arms rigid in front of him, his gun aimed. “Stop! Stop!” he shouted. “Stop, you motherfucker!”
Two shots, that was all he was going to get. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger. A flash exploded in front of him and he had to blink the runner back into focus. He fired again.
He couldn’t see where he was shooting. Then he saw him again. He was almost to the trees on the opposite side of the road.
“Loon-11. Loon-11. Are you code-4?” Edna called.
Louis ran, stumbling in the deep drifts. He fell and struggled to his feet, raised his gun and fired again as the man leapt into the trees. Branches splintered as the darkness swallowed him up.
“Son of a bitch!” Louis yelled.
“Eleven! Advise code-4!”
He gripped his weapon and emptied it at the trees, the gun buckling in his hands, the explosions reverberating in the night.
Louis lowered the gun, panting. With trembling hands, he jammed the speed-loader into the cylinder and slapped it shut. “You fucking bastard!” he shouted to the darkness. “Motherfucking bastard!”
“Loon-11, advise your status!”
He started to run toward the cruiser but his legs bogged down in the heavy drifts. In the distance, he heard an engine roar to life and ran toward it. He stumbled up onto the asphalt in time to see two red taillights disappear into the night, heading east on County Road 329.
“Loon-11! Advise your status!” Edna called.
Louis ran back to the cruiser and froze.
Ollie was slumped in the seat, his leg dangling out the door. His eyes were open, his gun still in his hand. He was shot in the throat. Blood was gushing from the wound, covering the dark blue fur of the nylon parka.
“Loon-11. Please advise your status!”
Ollie’s lips were moving. His eyes were locked on Louis, frightened, birdlike. He was alive. Jesus, he was alive.
Louis seized the radio off the dash. “I need an ambulance out here now!” he shouted. “Now!”
Ollie lifted his trembling hand. Louis took it, gripping Ollie’s fingers in his. They felt damp and cool as clay.
“Central, where is my backup!” Louis yelled into the mike, bracing his elbow on the hood.
Ollie’s fingers wiggled limply in his. “Help me,” he said, his voice thick with blood.
Jesus, everything was red. Ollie’s throat, his shirt, the car, the lights. Oh, Jesus…He had to stop it, he had to stop it.
Louis tossed the radio on the dash and leaned in the car, placing his hand on the wound. Warm blood oozed over his skin and he could feel Ollie’s weak pulse under his fingertips.
“Hang on, man,” Louis whispered. “Hang on.”
“Loon-11, what’s the situation out there?” It wasn’t Edna’s calm voice now. It was Gibralter’s, hard and firm.
Louis reached across Ollie for the radio but froze as he saw Ollie’s eyes looking up at him. They were dull. It took a moment before he realized the pulsating under his fingers had stopped.
He slowly withdrew his hand, staring at it. For a second, the radio traffic stopped and it was absolutely silent.
A deep, slicing pain moved through him, doubling him over. He pressed his bloody hand to his forehead.
“Loon-11!” Gibralter shouted.
Louis squeezed his eyes closed, his fist banging on the roof of the cruiser.
“Kincaid!”
Numbly, he reached back for the radio. He turned away from Ollie and clicked on the radio but when he tried to speak the words caught in his throat. He knew what he needed to say. He had heard it before a hundred times. But not for real. On television and in the movies. Not for real. Not for real.
“Central…we have…we have a 10–99.”
He looked up quickly, up into the snowflakes.
“Officer down.”
There was silence. Then, suddenly, the radio burst alive with urgent voices. Other Loon Lake officers, and on
