Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t touch anything at a crime scene or risk contaminating evidence. But with an armed suspect at large in the immediate vicinity, I’m in imminent danger. I need a weapon. Unsnapping the leather strap of the deputy’s holster, I slide a .40-caliber Glock from its nest and back away from the vehicle.

Using the lever, I eject six bullets from the rifle, drop them in my pocket, and toss the rifle on the ground. I look toward the house. No movement. Aside from the steady rap of rain against the car, the muddy slap of it against the ground, the farm stands in absolute silence. But I know I’m being watched. I feel it as surely as I feel the rain streaming down my face. Did Mast double back and exit through the slaughter shed? Or is he watching me from the house, his finger itchy on the trigger?

The sound of tires on gravel draws my attention. Relief skitters through me when I see a Trumbull County cruiser barrel up the lane, lights flashing. I wave, and the vehicle veers toward me, skids to a halt a few feet behind the other cruiser. A male deputy lunges from the car, a shotgun aimed at me. “Drop that fuckin’ gun! Get your hands up!”

“I’m a cop! I called.”

He keeps his eye on the house, the shotgun trained on me. “Show me your ID.”

Slowly, I reach into my pocket, pull out my badge. “I’m with BCI.”

He’s a solid, muscular guy with sandy hair and a handlebar mustache. He takes a good look at my badge and lowers the shotgun. But his attention has already moved on to the other cruiser. “What happened?”

“He’s down.”

“Aw, man.” He dashes to the cruiser and peers through the passenger window. “Fuck!” He stares at the body, his face screwing up. “Walker! Fuck!” He spins toward me, his expression ravaged. “What happened?”

“Perry Mast shot him. He’s armed with a rifle. In a tunnel below-ground. He’s got hostages down there.”

He looks at me as if I’m speaking in a foreign language. “What?” He fumbles with his lapel mike, his hand shaking. “Six-nine-two. I got shots fired at the Mast farm. Walker’s down. I need backup.”

A gunshot rings out. Simultaneously, we drop to a crouch.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” he snarls.

Another shot snaps through the air. A tinny whack sounds and I see a hole the size of my pinkie tear into the cruiser two feet away. “Barn!” I shout.

Staying low, we circle around, take cover on the opposite side of the car.

“Shots fired!” he shouts into his mike. “Possible ten-ninety-three,” he says, referring to the hostages. “Male suspect armed with a rifle.”

“Ten-four,” comes the dispatcher’s voice. “HP is en route. Stand by.”