In that moment, I realize I probably only have seconds to live. Terror sweeps through me. Vaguely, I wonder if I can hit my lapel mike without being noticed. Even if I can do that, I know that unless I can somehow keep Barbereaux and Warner talking, T.J. and Skid won’t be able to get here in time to save me.

I look down at Warner. He’s lying on the floor to my left, bent slightly, holding his abdomen with both hands. A slowly growing puddle of blood encircles his body like a black halo.

I turn my attention to Barbereaux. “I’ve got EMT training. Let me stop the bleeding.”

Barbereaux hikes the shotgun. “Where’s that fucking Amish kid?”

Only then do I realize he still believes Billy Zook can identify him. I try to think of a way I can use that to my advantage. A dozen lies fly at my brain. “I’ll take you to him,” I blurt out.

“You’ll tell me where he is or I’ll cut you down where you stand,” he says between gritted teeth.

No matter what happens, the one thing I will not do is reveal the boy’s whereabouts. “I’m a cop, Scott. If you kill me, they’ll put a needle in your arm.”

Behind me, I hear Warner whimper. “I need to get to the hospital.”

I glance over at him. The puddle of blood has doubled in size. I can smell it now. That awful, metal-and-methane stench. “He’s bleeding out. Let me help him.”

His expression doesn’t change. There’s no sympathy for the dying man, no fear of discovery, just a deadly determination and all of it is focused on me. “You’ve got one more chance. Where’s that fuckin’ kid?”

“He’s at a safe house, surrounded by a dozen cops—”

He moves so quickly, I don’t see the blow coming. One moment I’m scrambling for a lie, trying to think my way out of this. The next I’m reeling sideways. For a crazy instant, I think he’s shot me, then I realize he swung the shotgun, striking my left temple. I stumble, make a wild grab for the counter, careen into it hard enough to cave in the wood front, and go down hard.

The next thing I know, I’m on my back. Barbereaux straddles my chest, shoving the shotgun crossways against my throat. “Where’s the kid!” he screams.

Around me the room spins crazily. Lightning is like a strobe on his face. The shotgun grinds hard against my windpipe and Adam’s apple. I turn my head, try to raise my hands to push it away, but he’s got them trapped with his knees.

“You better start talking!” he shouts.

I open my mouth, but the steel barrel is crushing my voice box. Cursing, he removes the shotgun.