Twenty feet away from Brody, the downed officer’s feet kicked on the ground. Not only was he still alive, he was trying to inch away from the house. But his body didn’t budge. His injuries were too serious, and he appeared too weak to move. Blood stained the grass next to his leg. Too much blood for Lance to last very long without help. But to get to him, Brody was going to have to cover open ground. He’d be a clear target, like a metal duck in a shooting gallery.

To save Lance, Brody would have to trust Stella.

“Can you cover me?” he shouted.

She nodded and lifted the rifle. Sweat soaked Brody’s shirt. She yelled something back, but Brody didn’t hear it. His hearing was muffled, as if he were wearing the double layers of ear protection he used at the firing range.

Brody levered a knee under his body, launched to his feet, and ran for Lance. Stella fired at the window as Brody crossed the grass, grabbed Lance under the armpits, and dragged him toward the police cars. Lance’s blue eyes were wide open and hazed with fear and pain.

A shot rang from the house. A bullet whizzed by Brody’s head. He dropped, covering Lance with his own torso. Stella took aim and fired again. Then she straightened, waiting. Quiet descended again. Brody’s hearing returned as suddenly as it had disappeared. He heard the wind and Lance’s groans beneath him. The thin wail of an approaching siren floated in the air.

Brody pulled Lance behind the police vehicles. The cop’s pale face was turned away. Was he alive? Brody kept one eye on the house and reached for his neck. A pulse thrummed weakly against his fingertips.

In his peripheral vision, he saw a red stain spreading in the dirt next to Lance’s leg. The bullet had struck him in the thigh. Blood was turning the gravel muddy. He was bleeding out fast. Brody yanked off Lance’s clip-on uniform tie, folded it in half, and pressed it to the wound. Then he yanked off his own tie, looped it around Lance’s leg, and tied it snugly. The blood flow seemed to slow, or was that Brody’s wishful thinking? “Hang on, Lance.”

Lance’s eyes darted in wild circles. “Where is he?”

“No worries. Stella’s got us covered,” Brody said.

A door slammed. The shooter ran out the side exit of the house, a rifle in one hand, two bags in the other.

“Stop. Police,” Stella yelled.