The man was twenty feet away, but he didn’t see me, hidden behind a pile of fallen logs.

I saw the shadow of an arm pass the beam, and I rose up, unsure if he was lowering or raising his weapon.

“Freeze. Mason Falls Police.” My gun was trained on the old guy’s body, center mass, but I could only see his shape silhouetted in the light.

Click.

The light went off, and I dove for Remy, crashing her to the forest floor.

I heard footsteps fading. The crashing of brush. And in a minute, silence. The old man was gone.

Remy and I got up slowly. Behind us by a few hundred feet were the sounds of sirens. Police cruisers. Ambulances.

Sometimes a shoot-out is clearly defined like in a movie. Good guys on one side and bad guys on the other. But most of the time, it’s chaos. Gunfire coming in, and you’re not sure who’s shooting who.

“Was that his gun that clicked or his flashlight?” Remy asked.

“You’re still here, aren’t you?”

She took this in, shell-shocked.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For freezing.”

“You’re okay,” I said. “That’s the important thing.”

Remy walked back and got a flashlight from a blue-suiter. We searched the area then, scanning to the east, in the direction the old guy had shot.

An eastern screech owl flew over our heads, landing on a branch above us, its yellow irises glowing in the night.

“Oh geez,” Remy said.

She’d found the short guy, and he’d been hit twice in the chest.

Remy took off her sweatshirt and tried to stem the blood loss, but it was useless. I got on my phone, calling patrol. “We need a stretcher up here fast.”

I leaned over the short guy, while Remy held his hand. His eyes were piercing, and he smelled like mint chewing tobacco. “He didn’t get it,” he mumbled, patting at his leg. Searching for his wallet maybe. “The old fucker. He didn’t get it.”

He almost smiled then, and his chest shook.

“Hold on, bud,” I said. “Just hold on. An ambulance is coming.”

“C-café,” the short guy stammered.

Remy pressed hard, but the blood was soaking through her sweatshirt fast, and no ambulance was in sight.

A moment later, there was no shaking, and his body was still.

“Shit,” Remy said.

When we finally came down the hill a good thirty minutes later, we saw Gattling sitting on the edge of an ambulance. A tech was checking him out, and his body was rocking back and forth.

“What’s wrong with Darren?” I asked one of the patrolmen.

“A kid died in his arms at the bar.”

“What?” I said, incredulous.

I hustled over, and Gattling’s face was gray. “What the hell happened?” I demanded.

“I put direct pressure like you said,” he mumbled. “But by the time the bus came, the kid was barely speaking.” Gattling stopped talking and took his big hands, wiped at his eyes.

Jesus, what a mess.