Besides coming home safe, cops also have another steadfast rule.

Don’t screw up in public.

Being disarmed, pepper-sprayed with his own canister, and then cuffed and tossed into the rear of your cruiser, like some damn sack of potatoes…after a dignified amount of time, his fellow troopers in his section are going to tease him without mercy in the years to come, unless he busts a couple of heads along the way and threatens his job.

He might even have to put in for a transfer, or go find another law enforcement job somewhere, try to start new and live this down.

A ringing noise interrupts his fast-moving thoughts, and he realizes it’s his cell phone, and he can’t get to it, and crap, maybe it’s Lu calling, to check in on him, to remind him to pick up that prescription.

Damn. Screwing up on the job and in his personal life. What a day this has turned out to be.

He shimmies forward, and then lifts both feet and slams them against the rear door window. The glass trembles and his feet bounce right back.

What did that Army captain say? Something about needing time.

He tries again with his feet.

The window stays in place.

Hancock thinks that the Cornwall woman could be looking for enough time to save the planet, and he rightly doesn’t give a crap.

When he gets free, there’s going to be a law enforcement pursuit that will make that Army captain regret ever going after Clay Hancock, by God.

He tries again with his feet.

I’m going up near my Wrangler and a red Ford pickup truck is slowing down, like it wants to check me out or maybe offer some help, and I make an exaggerated motion at the front of my slacks, to look like I am zipping things up after taking a bathroom break.

The truck speeds up, there’s a honk and some shouts from the two guys inside, and instead of doing what I want to do—give them a one-finger salute—I give them a big smile and wave and get back into my Jeep, after having picked up my license and registration from the ground.

Inside the Jeep I should gently place the .357 Ruger back into my leather carrying case, get out into traffic, and resume my mission to Three Rivers, Texas, and fast.

I should.

Instead I just bow my head against the steering wheel, shudder, and start sobbing.

I take a deep breath.

It’s a hell of a thing, coming that close to shooting an innocent state trooper.

A hell of a thing.

Then I start up my Jeep and get the hell out of there.

CHAPTER 37

TOM CORNWALL is exhausted and discouraged, sitting on the end of the bunk bed, back in his cubical prison. His right arm is stretched out, gently holding Denise’s hand. She’s wide-eyed but keeping calm, sitting up against a pile of pillows. A dark-skinned woman wearing a black scarf around her head is smiling and whispering at Denise as she works on her cut foot.