I land on my back hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. The back of my head strikes the ground. I’m sprawled with my arms stretched above my head. I’m still clutching my .38, but I can’t move. I can’t speak or shout. I can’t draw a breath.

I lie there, trying to suck air into compressed lungs. The ceiling of the building is a blur of steel beams, broken lights, patches of rust, and scraps of dry grass from birds’ nests. An undignified sound grinds from my throat as I roll onto my side, wheezing. I glance at the loading dock, half expecting to see the shooter with a rifle shouldered, but there’s no one there. The broken rail dangles by a single cable, still swaying. The steel post was rusted through and snapped when I leaned against it.

“Damn it. Damn it.” I’m aware of my radio cracking and spitting, urgent voices and codes I should know but can’t seem to remember. I need to reply, but I’m still trying to get air into my lungs. My chest hurts. The small of my back. I move my legs and I’m relieved when they work. Propping myself on an elbow, I sit up.

Where the hell is the shooter?

I get to my feet. Crouching, I stumble to the loading-dock wall and peek over the top. There’s no one there. I raise my .38 and call out. “Painters Mill PD! Drop your weapon!”

My voice echoes wispy and high within the building. I listen for footsteps, for a door opening or closing, an engine in the lot out front, but I get nothing. I fumble for my lapel mike. “Ten-thirty-one E! Shots fired! Need assistance!”

“What’s your twenty? What’s your goddamn twenty?” comes a voice I don’t recognize.

“County Road Twenty-four,” I say. “Hewitt Hog Producers.”

“Ten-seven-six,” comes another. Glock, I realize. Calm. Determined. Capable. Glock. “ETA two minutes.”

*   *   *

“Chief!”

I’m standing at the base of the loading dock, .38 in hand, listening to the radio traffic, when I hear Glock’s voice.

“I’m here!”

He’s standing just inside the door, sidearm at the ready, shotgun slung over his shoulder. Kevlar vest thrown on over his uniform shirt. I know from the radio that a Coshocton County deputy has gone around the back. Another is in his cruiser, circling the block.

I take the steps to the dock, trying to conceal the fact that my legs are shaking. “You clear the front?”

“No one there.” He jogs toward me, his eyes assessing. “You hit?”

“No, I’m okay.”

His eyes take in the dangling rail. “You fall?”

“Rail gave way.” I brush bits of dried grass and dirt from my slacks. “I busted my ass.”

“You need an ambulance?”

I shake my head. “Nope. I’m fine.”