Slipping the rifle’s strap over his shoulder, he let it rest on his back as he slowed his pace, trying to find a tree that he could easily climb. His arm was so much better since he’d been resting in Smythe’s soft bed, but it still didn’t have a lot of strength.

He found a tree with low-hanging limbs that appeared strong enough to support his weight and, one-armed, hefted himself to the first limb. He didn’t need to climb high, just enough to be out of the cops’ sight when they came looking for him.

It didn’t take long. Within minutes, a pair of SacPD uniforms appeared, searching among the trees, shining their flashlights along the ground.

Surprise, he thought. Bracing his rifle on a tree limb, he got a line on the first cop’s head, then the second’s. Both were wearing vests over their uniforms, but neither wore a helmet. He pulled the trigger on the first, then the second.

They both dropped like bricks. Not wasting a minute, DJ swung down from the tree and raced to the first cop. He was bigger than DJ, but he’d do.

Removing the cop’s vest, DJ tugged his shirt off, buttons going everywhere. DJ slipped it over his own shirt, setting his rifle on the ground only long enough to pull the shirt into place and the vest over it. The pants he left on the body. He didn’t need them for what he had in mind.

The cop’s gun belt was next. It hung low on DJ’s leaner hips, but again, it would do for what he had in mind. The cop had dropped his handgun when he’d been hit. DJ scooped it up, grabbed his own rifle, and ran for the truck.

Sure enough, the cop car was parked behind it, lights still flashing. Engine still running.

Not stopping to think or second-guess himself, DJ got in the police cruiser and started toward the interstate. He saw his mark—a late-model Honda Civic—and fell into place behind the car.

The car pulled over to the shoulder like a good citizen. DJ approached the driver’s window, his own silenced gun drawn. He didn’t want to draw attention with more gunfire.

“Hands on the steering wheel!” he barked. But the young woman behind the wheel wasn’t obeying. She was holding her damn phone. Recording him.

For fuck’s sake.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” she started. “I’m recording you for my own protection and I will be talking to your supervi—”

Reaching into the car, DJ grabbed her phone, dropped it to the asphalt, and shot it. The screen splintered. He kicked it under the tire.

“Ohmygod!” the woman screeched. “You can’t—”

DJ opened her door, pulled her out, and dragged her to the cruiser. He tossed her in the back seat and shot her in the head, then shot her a second time. Just to be sure. He took off the cop’s shirt and threw it over her face. The cop’s vest and gun belt he kept.