Pain rattles me awake. My chest heaves, some primal instinct telling my body to get air into my oxygen-starved lungs. Every breath is an agony, and I choke out animal sounds. Confusion is a cotton ball inside my head, but I’m aware enough to know that my ribs are broken. Maybe my spine. Shit.

I open my eyes to darkness, but I can see the kitchen window. The occasional flash of lightning. I’m lying on the floor on my back with my arms above my head. I glance down at my chest. The sight of blood shocks me because I know it’s mine. Black, wet stains on my dress, on my arms and legs. Drops and smears on the floor around me. I’m bleeding, but I don’t know where it’s coming from.

For several seconds I concentrate on breathing. My mind begins to clear. The memory of the shooting replays in my head like some bad movie. The kind where the idiot cop screws up and gets what he’s got coming. Only this time that idiot cop is me. I’d expected one accomplice tonight, not two. A stupid mistake that would have killed me if I hadn’t been wearing the vest. Of course the night isn’t over.

I’m wheezing like an asthmatic. An involuntary groan grinds from my throat when I roll over and take a quick physical inventory of my injuries. Broken ribs. Maybe a collapsed lung. My shoulders and arms are bleeding. My face and neck sting, and I realize belatedly the wounds on my arms are from shotgun pellets. Not life-threatening, but I’m in a world of hurt. Worse, I’m in danger of Barbereaux returning to finish the job.

Where the hell is he?

Pain surges when I move my arms down to my sides. For several seconds, I can’t draw a breath. A cry escapes me when I push myself to a sitting position. I grapple in my pocket for my lapel mike, but it’s gone. My cell phone is gone. So is the .38. Lifting my dress, I glance at the leather holster at my thigh. Relief snaps through me when I see the .22. Whimpering with pain, I slide the weapon from its nest, pull back the hammer.

That’s when it strikes me that Warner is gone. I glance over where I last saw him. A flicker of lightning reveals a puddle of blood and a single long smear, as if someone stepped in it and slid. That’s when I hear voices coming from the living room twenty feet away.

“I need to get to the hospital. I’m in a bad way.”

“Hang tight, partner. I know a doctor in Wooster. He owes me. He’ll fix you up.”