Stone backed away, looking for another weapon or a place to hide, and the blade swished past his head, the tip slicing his cheek. Now he was bleeding on both sides of his body. He tried to remember what he had been told about defense from a knife at the police academy all those years ago. Step into the swing of the blade, not away from it. He tried that, holding up his left arm in defense, and felt a hot cut as the blade went through his canvas jacket and caught his forearm. He was losing this fight.

He remembered something else from some forgotten weapons instruction. He snatched the SureFire flashlight from his pocket, held it in his fist, and pointed it at Fife-Simpson, pressing the On switch with his thumb.

Roger’s eyes were open when the incredibly bright beam hit him, and he staggered backward, momentarily blinded.

Stone went for the pitchfork on the floor between them and got a grip on it with his weakened left hand. He wasn’t giving up the flashlight, though; he slipped it back into his jacket pocket and got both hands on the pitchfork’s handle. He thrust at the man’s chest, but the tines didn’t have the desired effect. Roger was wearing some sort of ballistic garment, Stone decided. Stone’s thrust had knocked him to one knee, though, and the next thrust was at his face.

Roger jerked his head aside in time, but a tine caught his ear, causing him to scream and back away. He came to a stop against a bale of hay, blood streaming down his neck.

Stone thought he had one more good thrust left in him before he bled out, and he drew back with his right, prepared to throw the thing at the man’s head.

“No!” Roger shouted, then threw away the knife.

Stone heard it clatter across the concrete floor.

“No more!”

Stone’s foot kicked something, and he knew what it was. Keeping the pitchfork aimed at its target, he bent down and scooped up his shotgun. He dropped the pitchfork, pointed the shotgun upward, and pulled the trigger. The blast nearly deafened him, and Roger slipped down the side of a bale of hay onto the floor.

“One more round left,” Stone said, pointing it at him.

“You can’t,” Roger said. “That would be murder.”

“I suppose it would be,” Stone said, aiming at his head.

Then a light hit him, and a voice yelled, “Drop the shotgun! Hands up!”

Stone froze, then slowly bent and laid the fine weapon on the floor. “I’m Barrington!” he yelled. “And I’m fucking bleeding to death!” He sank onto the floor and leaned against a hay bale.

“It’s Barrington!” someone shouted. “Don’t fire! Medic, medic!”

Then Stone passed out.