The shuffle of shoes tells me someone’s coming my way. Grinding my teeth in pain, I quickly lay back down in the same position. But I keep my hand on the .22. It’s a small revolver, but it’s not so small that if they looked closely they wouldn’t see it.

“Fuckin’ bitch cop.”

“She’s dead,” Warner croaks. “Let’s go.”

Something hard rams my shoulder, jarring my chest. An involuntary groan squeezes from my throat. I don’t dare open my eyes. But he kicks me again, and I look up at him.

Barbereaux smiles down at me. “I bet you think you’re real fuckin’ smart, don’t you?” He points my .38 at my face.

I’ve never felt so utterly helpless in my life. “Don’t do this.” I look at Warner. His face is ghastly white. Sweat coats his forehead. Blood covers the front of his shirt. He’s holding his abdomen, listing, clutching the counter to remain standing. “He’s going to kill you,” I tell him.

“Shut up!” Barbereaux looks at Warner. “Don’t listen to her.” His eyes skate back to mine, his lips curling into a snarl. “I don’t believe you about the trap. I’m only going to ask you this one time before I start putting holes in you, so listen good. You got that?”

I nod.

“Where’s that fuckin’ Amish kid?”

For a crazy instant I consider trying to get both of them with the .22. Empty the cylinder. Five shots. Hope for the best. My marksmanship skills are good, but I know my broken ribs will affect my speed. Wait for a better opportunity. Keep him talking.

“I wasn’t lying.” My voice comes out like a croak.

His mouth tightens into an ugly line. “Wrong answer.” With the speed of a striking snake, he shifts the gun left. The explosion rocks my brain. The pain is like a wood chipper chewing up my left arm. I hear a scream that goes on and on, realize belatedly it’s mine.

Whimpering, I look down. Blood gushes from my left forearm, a few inches below my elbow. The fabric of my dress is soaked. Pain and shock punch my brain, Mike Tyson in a murderous rage and taking care of business.

“Where’s the fucking kid?” he screams.

“Safe house!” I choke out the lie with the vehemence of truth. It’s all I can manage. The pain is overwhelming. Unbearable heat envelops my face. Dizziness crashes down on me. Nausea seesaws in my gut. Don’t pass out . . .

“Where?” he says, calmer now.

Air rushes between my clenched teeth. Every breath rips me in two. I’m pretty sure the bullet broke my arm. I feel shock descending. But in that moment all I can think is that I still have the .22.

“You think I’m not serious about filling you full of holes, you bitch cop?” he says.