Once he was out of sight, I slumped into the darkest area of my booth and brought the radio to my lips.

“All right, people,” I said. “Gattling, hang back at the table. Rem, it’s go time.”

Remy stood up and pocketed her earpiece. She moved across to the bar and waved McGulden over for a drink, in a ready position for when the man returned from the bathroom.

I’d trained Remy from the first day she’d left patrol, and there was no better cop to have in this position. This wasn’t just because she was beautiful and strong, but because she was smart and knew how to play a man.

I laid the radio down on the seat and watched as Remy put her elbows along the counter, her butt leaning against the stool, but not sitting on it. She positioned herself right where the short guy had left his beer, which would force a conversation when he returned.

The song changed, and a familiar guitar riff kicked in. George Thorogood and the Destroyers.

I felt excitement move through me. Two hours ago, there was an outside chance of coming face-to-face with our murder suspect. Now he was here in the bar.

But before the man could return from the can, a loud noise came from that direction.

Pop, pop, pop.

A woman screamed, and a man ran toward me from the far side of the bar. Gattling rose from his seat. He took a gun from his boot, and the three of us—me, him, and Remy—flew across the bar. Customers streamed around us, running the other way. The old guy. The drunk girl. And the bass of the music pumped.

Gattling flipped open the door to the men’s room, and I scanned the small space, my Glock 42 out.

Both stalls were empty, but lying across the dirty linoleum was a body.

It was one of the college kids who I’d seen playing pool. Bleeding now from his gut.

“Jesus,” I said to the kid. “What the hell happened?”

The kid’s breathing was shallow, and his eyes were giant spheres of white that moved up to the window. A space that was probably two feet by four and missing a screen. Laid out in the sink was a mound of Ace bandage.

“Darren,” I said to Gattling, looking at the kid’s stomach wound. “Get me some clean bar towels.”

I looked to Remy—and then to the window.

“I got him,” Remy said, and took off. Racing across the bar.

I crouched, grabbing the kid’s hand. “What’s your name?”

“Jacob.”

“All right, Jacob,” I said. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

“Good,” he muttered.

“The good news is you’re gonna be fine. It takes two hours to die from this kinda wound, and our EMTs are gonna be here in five minutes.”

“What’s the bad news?” he asked through labored breathing.

“It’s gonna hurt like hell,” I said.

Gattling came back with a stack of seven or eight clean white bar towels, and we peeled back the kid’s shirt. Saw the entry wound in his stomach.