Still the guy struggled, his feet running in place, the toes of his black trainers scraping for purchase on the blacktop.

Mac checked the status of number one. No worries. The guy was busy trying to plug the gusher in his thigh with both hands.

“Looks like a bleeder,” Mac shouted at him. “If I were you, I’d want to get to a doctor ASAP.”

The big guy’s glare was wide with fear and pain. The man under Mac continued to kick his feet. Mac added a knee in the small of his back. The air rushed out of number two’s lungs and he went still.

“What. Do. You. Want?” Mac enunciated carefully.

“You,” Number two hissed. “You’re worth five grand to Freddie, and he don’t care if you come in a box or a bag.”

Freddie had put out a contract on Mac. He shouldn’t be surprised, but damn, he really hadn’t expected Freddie to go this far.

He called 911. Five minutes later, a patrol vehicle arrived, then an EMT vehicle. The paramedics bandaged the bleeder. The cop handed out handcuffs and took Mac’s statement. A steady stream of quiet radio chatter flowed from the open police car. An ambulance arrived and the thugs were loaded into the back.

The cop’s head swiveled toward his vehicle. “Hold on.”

He ran back and grabbed the mic. Snippets of the quiet conversation made Mac’s belly ice up.

“Shooting in progress. Officer down.”

Stella knelt next to Brody and wrapped her arm around his waist.

“Just go!” He waved.

“No.” Hauling him to his feet, Stella staggered under his weight.

A man in a white coat ran toward them from the pharmacy. “I called nine-one-one.”

He went to Brody’s other side and helped Stella carry him across the street and into the building, where they eased him down on the floor in front of the register. Sirens approached. “I told them you needed an ambulance.”

Weapon in hand, Brody tried to sit up.

Stella shoved him down. “Hold still. You’re leaking.”

Brody stopped fighting her and lay still.

“Did you get a look at him?” Stella kept one eye on the yellow house through the plate glass windows. She suspected their shooter was long gone, but she wasn’t taking chances.

“No.” Pain glazed Brody’s eyes. Blood soaked his pant leg and puddled on the gray linoleum.

Dropping to her knees beside him, she tore open his pant leg. “Can you get me some gauze?” she asked the man.

“Yes.” The man disappeared into an aisle. He returned a few seconds later with boxes of first aid supplies.

“I’m the pharmacist.” He opened a box of gauze pads and tore a package. “Bill.”