“Don’t do it,” I choke.

“How about if I show you just how fuckin’ serious I am?”

Before I can respond, he shifts the gun. I brace. Reflex nearly causes me to bring up the .22, but I hold it steady in my right hand. If he breaks my right arm, I’m as good as dead.

Instead, he levels the weapon at Warner and fires. The bullet blows a hole the size of a dime in the other man’s forehead. Warner’s head snaps back. A surprised expression crosses his face. And then he drops like a rock.

Another layer of shock whips through me. I stare at the dead man, watch the blood spread into a pool on the floor.

Barbereaux turns to me, his eyes as dead as the man on the floor. “Looks like it’s just me and you now.” He levels the gun at my left thigh. “Broken femur’s going to hurt. I suggest you start talking. Where’s the kid?”

Adrenaline crashes through me. My arms and legs shake uncontrollably. I’m dizzy with pain and shock. But I know it’s now or never. He’s going to kill me and stage the scene so it looks like Warner and I exchanged gunfire, killing each other. Barbereaux’s going to get away scot-free.

“At a farmhouse nearby,” I say.

“Where?”

“Down the road. Five minutes. Left on Dog Leg Road.” I give him a bogus address and then shift my gaze to the dead man. “He’s still alive.”

Barbereaux jerks his head left to look, and I make my move. Pain explodes in my chest as I level the .22 on him. He makes eye contact with me an instant before I fire.

Two shots. His body jolts. I see disbelief on his face. He brings up the gun. I fire the final three bullets. Two in the chest. One in the shoulder. No more ammo. My finger keeps jerking. The empty chamber clicks.

Click. Click. Click.

Barbereaux steps back. For an instant, time stands still. He stares at me. His mouth opens. I see blood on his teeth. More blood blooming on his shirt. He glances down at it. His knees buckle and hit the floor hard. Then he falls face down and doesn’t move.

I struggle to my knees. The room tilts beneath me. Cradling my left arm, I crawl on my knees to Barbereaux. He lies perfectly still with his head to one side. He’s alive; his eyes are on me. My .38 lies a few inches from his right hand. I know I’m screwing up the crime scene, but I don’t care.

Picking up the .38, I level it at his forehead. “This is for what you did to Mary Plank, you son of a bitch.” I feel nothing when I pull the trigger.