She fumbled for the volume on the walkie-talkie and switched it off before the robber heard something. She clipped it to her belt and pulled her jacket over it, hiding her battery pack at the same time.

At the register, the robber swung to face her.

“You! Get on the floor.” The masked man pointed his gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger to make his point.

“Tully? What the hell is going on?” came Johnny’s voice through the earpiece.

Tully fumbled with the earpiece cord, trying to conceal it under her jacket. Then she turned up the volume on the walkie-talkie’s outgoing message, hoping like hell Johnny would be able to pick up some sound. “Someone’s robbing the store,” she whispered as loudly as she dared, depressing the outgoing button.

In her earpiece, she heard Johnny say, “Holy shit. Mutt, call 911 and then start shooting. Tully, keep calm and get the hell to the floor. We can go live with this. Turn on your mic. I’m getting hold of the station. They’re on air now. Stan, can you hear me?”

A few seconds later, Johnny said, “Okay, Tully. We’re putting this through to Mike. He’s on air now with the ten o’clock news. Your audio is going on live. You won’t be able to hear him, but he’ll hear you.”

Tully turned on her mic, whispered into it, “I don’t know, Johnny. How do—”

“Your mic is hot, Tully,” he said urgently. “You’re on live. Go.”

The masked man must have heard something; he suddenly swung toward her again, pointing his gun at her. “I told you to get down, damn it.”

She just had time to process “I’ve had enough o’ this shit” when he pulled the trigger.

There was a loud crack of sound. Tully barely had time to scream before the bullet hit her in the shoulder and knocked her off her feet. She crashed into the shelves beside her, was vaguely aware of colored boxes crumbling and falling around her. Her head hit the linoleum floor hard.

For a moment, she lay there, gasping, staring up at a wiggling snake of fluorescent lighting.

“Tully?”

It was Johnny’s voice, in her ear. She eased slowly—slowly—onto her side. Her shoulder throbbed with pain, but she gritted her teeth and kept moving. Keeping low, she crawled to the end of the aisle, ripped open a box of Kotex, and shoved a pad over her wound, holding it in place. The pressure hurt like hell and made her dizzy.

“Tully? What happened? Talk to me. Are you okay?”

“I’m here,” she said. “I just put . . . a dressing on my wound. I think I’m fine.”

“Thank God,” Johnny said. “You want to turn off your mic?”

“No way.”