The gut-shot cop wasn’t a concern. He wasn’t going to die immediately, but that was a good thing. His screams of agony would help confuse and dismay his buddy outside and would ultimately slow down pursuit, as any further troopers responding to the scene would see their fallen comrade as their first priority.

Rickard snatched the cop’s revolver off the floor and jammed it into his belt. Then, looping an arm around Imogen’s throat, he moved into the doorway.

The second trooper had retreated to the far side of his cruiser and was leaning over the hood, his gun trained on them.

“Police,” he yelled. “Put down the gun.”

Rickard ignored the challenge and pushed Imogen forward, down the steps and across the yard. The cop could shoot, but he’d hit Imogen first.

“Drop your weapon!” The cop’s words were a loud screech.

Crash through their defenses, cut them down. Rickard came on, forcing the trooper to stand up and back away.

Staring into the man’s eyes, Rickard saw that he was jammed firmly between running for his life and doing his duty. While he was stuck there, he wasn’t doing either. Rickard shot him in his huge belly. Twice for good measure.

The cop went down, and his screams matched those of his fallen companion. Imogen joined in, and now it was the surf and the seagulls that had to take a backseat.

Dispassionately, Rickard pulled Imogen away from the sorely wounded man and marched her across to where he’d left the FedEx truck. It was good for carrying an unconscious woman, but too distinctive to avoid detection for long.

“Give me your keys.”

Imogen’s Suburban was parked next to the house.

When she wasn’t forthcoming, Rickard smacked the butt of his gun on the nape of her neck and she sprawled at his feet.

Leaving her where she lay, he went back inside the house, stepping over the trooper in the vestibule to get to a stand where Imogen had left her purse. He found a bunch of keys in the bag and swept them into his palm.

He was inside no more than ten seconds, but the scene in the yard had changed. Imogen had crawled a small distance away, and was now on her hands and knees, shaking her head like a dog with a flea in its ear. But more important, the overweight cop had managed to claw his way inside his cruiser. White-faced and oozing perspiration, he was shouting into the radio mike.

Rickard glanced between the two of them, then stalked toward the police car. He lifted his gun, aiming it through the window.

“You should have just kept screaming until I was gone,” Rickard said. “Maybe you would have lived.”

He fired twice, shattering the window and the man. This time there was no screaming.