Most people in Serenity’s situation would be paralyzed by panic, but the former soldier is methodically rubbing calcium gluconate over every exposed part of her skin. My God, this woman has guts.

“What about you guys?” I ask. “Were either of you hit?”

“We’re good,” Mia assures me. “I already called 911 on my cell.”

Sure enough, I hear sirens from the direction of the sheriff’s department. I only hope Billy Byrd isn’t in one of those cars.

“I need to check on Walt,” I tell them. “Take care of Serenity.”

“We’ve got her,” Mia assures me, but her eyes tell me I shouldn’t hold out any hope for Walt Garrity.

One look at my father’s old friend tells me he hasn’t long to live. Walt’s got open limb fractures and a severe crush injury to his skull above his left ear. The full weight of the van slammed into him, face-on, and both axles rolled over him after that. I can’t even begin to guess at his internal injuries. Remarkably, Walt’s eyes are open, and when I kneel beside him and move into his field of vision, I see a flicker of recognition.

“Walt?” I say softly. “Can you hear me, buddy?”

He groans but does not speak.

“That was something you just did, Cap’n Garrity.”

The old Ranger licks his lips, then works his mouth around for a few seconds. “Annie,” he finally croaks out. “Is our little gal okay?”

In an instant my throat closes, and hot tears suffuse my eyes. I can’t speak, so I simply nod, leaning forward to be sure Walt can see me.

“She’s okay,” I finally manage to say. “You saved her. Mia, too.”

Something like a smile animates Walt’s weathered face. Then he says, “Not bad shooting . . . for an old man with cataracts. Huh?”

“Olympic class, I’d say.”

“The windshield deflected my first shot . . . but I drilled him with the second.”

“Stop trying to talk.”

The faintest of smiles again. “Hell, boy . . . if I don’t say it now, I never will.”

“The ambulance is on its way.”

At this Walt actually croaks a laugh. “Tell those boys to turn back to the barn. I’m an old medic, remember? I know when a ticket’s been punched.”

Kneeling over this old man, I realize that if he hadn’t shown up at the Valhalla hunting camp and killed Alphonse Ozan after I killed Forrest Knox, I’d have died in Forrest’s office back in December.

“Walt . . . I owe you so much, man.”

“That’s right . . . you do.” He winks, which sends a rivulet of blood into his eye socket. As carefully as I can, I wipe it away with my shirtsleeve.

“Walt, what were you doing by that church? You were at the right place at exactly the right time. Was that just luck?”