Then an indistinct figure takes shape a few feet from the door, a white T-shirt cloaked in darkness. No one is more surprised than I when my right forefinger pulls the trigger on the .38. Thunderous concussions blast through the tiled cubicle, and the bald crown of a head appears as my target stares down at the holes stitching his belly and chest.

I’m suddenly, sickeningly sure that I’ve shot some hapless truck driver who was too deaf to hear me say the bathroom was occupied.

Then the figure falls onto his back.

One leg of his jeans rides up his calf as he falls, revealing the bone hilt of a Bowie knife protruding from a motorcycle boot. Then the glint of nickel flashes in his left hand—a pistol. Edging up to the bathroom door, my .38 still gripped tight, I peek outside, glancing left and right.

Nothing.

Darting forward, I kick the pistol from the downed man’s hand, then jerk back like I would from a shot rattlesnake, half expecting it to strike in a death spasm. The pain etched in the downed man’s face signifies life.

“Goddamn it!” shouts someone from my left.

As I whirl toward the voice, a stranger standing at the corner of the station levels a pistol at me, and before I can aim my own a shot rings out. I tense against an impact that never comes. The stranger teeters, then grabs for the wall to steady himself.

“Freeze!” shouts a voice with military authority.

The wounded man raises his gun again, but before it comes level with me, something snatches away part of his skull.

He drops to the cement with a thud that tells me he was dead when he hit.

“Sitrep, Penn!” Tim calls from around the corner.

“Two down. I don’t know if there’s anybody else.”

“Assume there is! I’m coming to you.”

Tim appears at the corner in a combat shooting posture, then turns in a fast but deliberate circle, reading the encircling darkness.

“Annie and Mia?” I ask.

“Locked in a cold storage inside. Your guy dead?”

“Not yet. I disarmed him.”

“Let’s get clear. We’ll have to come back to talk to the sheriff and staties, but that’s later.”

“Just a second.” I breathe, looking back at the man I shot. “Cover me.”

Walking forward, I look down at the gasping man. A high whistle accompanies each breath, and a black circle the size of a dinner plate has soaked his shirt.

“He’s gone,” Tim says from behind me. “We need to get the girls into the Yukon, Penn.”

“Go do it. This guy said he had a message for me.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You work for me, Tim. I’m ordering you to cover the girls. I can take care of myself.”

The ex-SEAL’s shoes scrape as he sprints around the corner of the service station.