Two quick shots cut him off, and then there was silence.

“Got him for real, this time,” the gravelly voice cried out.

Lou’s heart sank.

“Let’s get some light on this situation.”

Floodlights affixed to widely spaced poles flashed on, creating a shadowy, artificial day. Lou could see almost everything around him. He was readying himself for a dash deeper into the corn, when he heard three quick pops of gunfire from his right, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. The two spots nearest him went out instantly.

“One of ’em has a gun! He just shot out two floods.”

Lou managed a cold smile. George must have brought more than a camera with him.

“Hey, Welcome, that you?” the man closest to him called out. “Your fat black friend is dead. Toast. You should have stayed at home, because you’re next!”

It was strange for Lou to hear his name called, but not surprising. Clearly, his mounting suspicions about Kings Ridge had gotten someone’s attention.

There was a sudden, intense rustling of corn from some distance away to his right, and moments later the gunman shouted, “Drop it, asshole!… I said drop it!”

He had George.

“Welcome,” he called out a minute later, “I’ll give you until five to show yourself! Then I’m gonna blow this little sucker’s head off.… One…”

Lou judged the killer to be some twenty feet directly in front of him. After rising slowly, he remained hunched over as he moved ahead.

“Two…”

“Lou, the motherfuckers shot Notso!”

“Three…”

“Fuck you! Go ahead and shoot me, you prick!”

In the eerie glow from one of the remaining spotlights, Lou could see the gunman’s broad back, one shoulder, and the gun he held pointed at George’s head.

“Four…”

“I’m not afraid of you, you fat—”

Blood running down from gouges in his forehead and neck, Lou had moved as close to the man as he could chance.

One … more … step … and …

“Five!”

Ten feet away, George was on his knees. His glasses had been knocked off, and Lou sensed the frustration and anger in his eyes.

But no fear.

“That’s it, Welcome. His blood is on your—”

Bellowing, Lou exploded from his crouch like a football lineman.

The gunman whirled awkwardly and George rolled at his legs, connecting just below his knees. The man managed two quick shots, but he was off balance, and the slugs slapped harmlessly into the soil.

Driven by a burst of adrenaline and countless hours of sparring, Lou’s fists came up. He landed a powerful left-right-left combination to the larger man’s jaw, snapping his head from side to side like a puppet’s. His knees already wobbly, he dropped his gun and staggered backwards. Lou launched himself again, pummeling his face and the center of his chest.