Rip drops the shotgun to the floor and starts roaring in pain. He holds his hand in front of his face. His index finger dangles from the second knuckle, held on by a strip of flesh. Blood cascades down his hand and arm.

Chelsea is crouched in a ball at the end of the couch, her eyes closed and her hands over her head like she’s in a tornado drill.

Behind me, glass tinkles down from the front picture window where the buckshot hit it. I’m lucky it was a long-barreled shotgun, keeping the pattern tight. If it was sawed-off, I might have taken a pellet or two on the periphery of the spread.

“You shot me in my trigger finger?” Rip whimpers, looking at me in disbelief. “How the hell did you do that?”

“If I hit you anywhere else,” I say, “you might have been able to bring the gun around and get a shot off. I had to pull the trigger for you.”

He stares at me, dumbfounded, his mouth quivering like he’s fighting back tears.

The sirens sound very close now. I keep my gun on Rip.

“Chelsea,” I say, “why don’t you go on out there and meet the officers when they come rolling up the driveway?”

She doesn’t need further prompting. She jumps up and runs for the door. I lower my gun during the instant she runs in its line of sight. Then it’s back up and leveled on Rip.

“I figure my backup will be here in about thirty seconds,” I say, “which means you’ve got about ten to tell me the location of the storage shed where you’ve imprisoned the immigrants.”

Rip’s skin has gone pale, and I’m not sure if it’s from the blood loss or the fear of what might happen next.

“There aren’t any witnesses now,” I say. “Just your word against mine. I’ll tell them you tried to lunge at me.” I add, “I’m surgical with this thing,” and lower the gun so the barrel is pointed at Rip’s crotch.

Rip hesitates about as long as it took me to draw my gun. He spills the location, the names of the coyotes he’s been working for—everything he can think to tell.

When the first patrolman comes through the door a minute later, I tell him to radio for a couple squad cars to go out to the storage building and find the prisoners. Then he calls for an ambulance.

“I doubt they’re going to be able to reattach that finger,” I say to Rip. “I guess you won’t be ripping any books in half anytime soon.”