“Reporting party didn’t leave their name. Stand by.”

My Explorer isn’t equipped with a spotlight, so I reach into the seat pocket for my Maglite and set it on the passenger seat. When I look up, I catch a glimpse of something on the road ahead. A faint glint against the night sky. A vehicle with no headlights, or possibly a buggy two hundred yards away. I hit my brights and the emergency overhead lights and accelerate.

I speak into my mike. “I got it,” I say, letting Jodie know I’ve found the location of the accident.

“Roger that. County’s ten-seventy-nine.”

I’m watching for movement, keeping an eye on the ditches on both sides of the road, doing about forty miles per hour, when a hole the size of my thumb blows through my windshield. At first I think I’ve struck a bird or an owl. But a second hole tears through the glass. A chunk of the dash hits the bridge of my nose, cutting me. Pain in my face. A thousand silver capillaries spread across the glass in every direction. Then the telltale thwack! thwack! of gunshots. The passenger window shatters. Glass pelts me. In my hair. Down the front of my uniform shirt.

I yank the wheel right. Stand on the brake. My headlights play over tall grass. The Explorer bumps over the shoulder. I glimpse a tumbling fence. The tree comes out of nowhere. I cut the wheel hard but not fast enough to avoid it. The impact throws me against my shoulder belt. The airbag explodes, hitting me in the chest like a giant fist.

For a moment I’m too dazed to move. My brain is cross firing. An engine working on one cylinder. I blink, try to get my bearings. The hood is buckled. There are two bullet holes in the glass. I raise my hand, but it’s shaking so violently I can barely get to my shoulder mike. “Shots fired.” I’d intended to shout the warning, but my voice is little more than groan. “Ten-thirty-three. Ten-thirty-three.”

The radio snaps and crackles with renewed vigor. I unfasten my seat belt. Free myself of the deflated airbag. I see blood on the white fabric. I’m aware of pain in my face. I don’t know if I’ve been shot.

Using my left hand, I try to open the door, but it’s jammed. I press the window button, but it doesn’t work. I crawl over the console. The passenger door won’t open, so I slither through the window. Broken glass slices my left palm. I’m midway through, when it dawns on me that I have no idea where the shooter is. That I’m vulnerable here and not sure I have cover.