The deafening noise exploded once again, accompanied by a strobe like flashing at the end of the aisles ahead. Brad caught the eye of each of the others, verified that they were all on the same page, and took the center aisle, moving low and quick. In his peripheral vision, between the books, he saw Hank keeping pace in the aisle to his left, Mitch on the aisle to his right. He hoped to Christ they’d be able to take down these kids without taking them out. He didn’t want to kill a teenager. His brain ran through all the possible scenarios, and he decided that he would show himself, order the shooters to put down their weapons. If they didn’t comply immediately, if either of their weapons started to swing toward him or his men, he would shoot. He would aim first for the arm attached to the trigger finger, then the legs, but if neither of those stopped the movement, he would shoot to kill. It would be a split-second decision, one that he had only a single chance of getting right—

Then he was there.

The bookcases came to an end, and he was in an open area that had probably been a computer lab but was now a debris field of overturned chairs, splintered tables, shattered monitors and broken keyboards. If the other member of Hildy and Clint’s team was here, Brad didn’t see him, but he did see the shooters. They were directly in front of him, and close, but luckily facing away. Even with only a partial rear view, he could see that they had military assault rifles.

He stood straight, legs apart in a shooting stance, gun held two-handed and steady. “Drop your weapons!”

They didn’t, and tried to turn, and he fired off a round into the shoulder of the one closest to him. His deputies must have come up with the same plan, since the boy’s knee was shattered by a bullet, and the kid next to him dropped to the floor, legs buckling and arm gushing blood.

Then they were on the students, kicking the weapons away, and Hildy emerged from behind one of the overturned tables, holding a wounded forearm.

Clint, Brad thought with a sickened realization. They killed Clint.

The boys lay on the floor, bleeding into the flat carpeting, screaming in agony. Brad picked up his radio and called for an ambulance, but, amazingly, paramedics were already outside the building and waiting, and as soon as he made the call, they burst into the library.

“How many in here?” one of them shouted.

“One dead, three wounded!” Brad called out.

“Two wounded,” Hildy said. “I’m okay.”

“Three wounded,” Brad stated flatly.

Stretchers were rolled in.

“Preserve the prints on those weapons,” he reminded Hank. “We have more than we need, but let’s not get sloppy.”