“Fuck him up, I keep saying!”

“You killed my daughter!”

They were now thirty feet from the office door. The crowd had grown and everyone was shouting insults. At least no more projectiles, other than spit.

Then one short, stocky man in jeans and a plaid shirt sped forward and slugged Billy in the side of the head. He cried out.

Dance displayed her shield once more. “You. Give me your name. Now!”

He laughed, grabbed the badge and flung it away. “Fuck you, bitch.”

She doubted that even a weapon brandished would have slowed them down. In any event she had no Glock to draw.

“Fuck him up! Get him!”

“Kill him.”

“Her too, bitch!”

These people were insane. Animals. Mad dogs.

“Listen to me,” Dance shouted. “You’re committing a felony! You will be arrested if you—”

It was then that the crowd’s control broke. “Get him. Now!”

Some were picking up rocks, one had another tire iron.

Jesus.

She ducked as a large stone zipped past her ear. She didn’t see who’d thrown it. She stumbled and ended up on her knees. The crowd surged forward.

Billy yanked her up to her feet and, hands over their heads, they sprinted to the office door. It was now closed. If Henderson had locked it, well, they could very well be dead in a few minutes.

Dance felt the full-on panic, an antelope hearing the rhythm of the lion’s paws moving closer and closer.

The door…

Please…

Just as they arrived it swung open. Billy turned and this time a rock hit its target square. It slammed into the man’s jaw and he gave a sharp cry. Blood poured and it was obvious he’d lost a tooth or two and possibly suffered a broken bone.

He staggered inside and collapsed on the floor, gripping his mouth. Dance stumbled inside too. The door slammed shut behind them and Henderson locked it.

“I called nine-one-one,” the office manager said.

“I did too,” Dance muttered, looking at Billy’s gash. “They should be here soon.”

She looked out the window, her hands shaking, heart pounding audibly.

Panic…

The crowd had ganged at the door. Their faces were possessed. She thought of the time when a crazed Doberman, off its leash, charged her and her German shepherd, Dylan, on a walk. Only pepper spray had stopped it.

No reasoning, no escaping.

Dance grimaced, noting that Henderson was holding a revolver, a Smith & Wesson, short-barrel .38 Special. Ambivalent in his hand.

“Put that away.”

“But—”

“Now,” she snapped.

He set the weapon back in its drawer.

A rock smashed into the side of the office, a huge sound, thanks to the metal walls. Chunks of concrete, as well. Two windows broke, though no one tried to climb in. More shouts.

Dance regarded Billy, whose eyes were closed from the pain. He held a towel, filled with ice, against his swollen face. Henderson’s relative had brought it.

Looking out through a broken window Dance could see flashing blue-and-white lights.