He ripped her trousers from her, tore at her panties while she fought hard against him. She yanked loose her wrists and pulled at his hair, but he was beyond caring. He pulled down his trousers and he was harder than any time he could ever remember with Alisha.

But his ardor only lasted as long as it took to realize that the pounding on the door meant big trouble.

“God damn it.”

Pulling away from Imogen, he held out a hand, halting her from following. He pulled up his trousers, quickly reached to a dresser where he’d placed his gun.

“Say a word and I’ll shoot you in the face.”

He moved across the bedroom to the window, standing alongside the drapes to peer outside. His angle meant he couldn’t see who was at the front door, but he could see the two police cruisers parked on the hard stand next to the house. An overweight cop was standing at the open door of his vehicle, one hand on his radio and one on the butt of his holstered gun. The cop glanced his way, but Rickard pulled back.

Joe Hunter, you sneaky son of a . . .

A fist banged firmly on the front door.

“Mrs. Ballard. State police. Open up, please.”

Imogen struggled into her clothes, throwing her feet over the edge of the bed. Rickard raced across to her, catching her elbow and jamming his gun under her chin. “Do not make a sound.”

But Imogen was defiant. She struggled away from the gun, yelling at the top of her voice.

Rickard backhanded her across the jaw, knocking her against a wall so that a photograph of a surly-looking man in Desert Storm fatigues was twisted askew. Rickard glanced at the face and thought that the man was scowling at him.

“Fuck you too,” he snapped.

He grabbed Imogen by the nape of her neck, pushing her toward the door and out on to a landing that overlooked the entrance hall. A shadow moved beyond the glass pane in the front door.

The state trooper shouted an announcement again, trying the door handle. The door swung open and the uniformed man followed inside. His service revolver was out, but it was aimed along the vestibule.

“Look out,” Imogen yelled.

The trooper’s eyes went wide, his head coming up, but the gun was a fraction slower.

Rickard fired and blood blossomed on the trooper’s shirt.

The trooper went down on his backside, then spun on the floor, gripping at his gut. Screaming in agony.

Instantly, Rickard forced Imogen down the stairs. There was another cop outside, the fat one. Have to get by him, Rickard knew, before reinforcements can arrive. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck inside the house with a cordon of armed cops all around. He’d been in worse predicaments, but he could do without the inconvenience.