As I reach down to his holster, something cracks through the air less than a foot above us, and the report that follows seems trivial compared to that supersonic passage of metal. Fighting down panic, I try to wrest the Sig-Sauer from Ike’s holster, but it won’t budge. He must have snapped the strap when he holstered it. Unsnapping it by touch, I yank out the Sig and take the safety off. As I aim it across Ike’s back, a bullet crashes into his body, knocking us both a foot across the cold floor.

He doesn’t make a sound.

Then, like a rising wind, a wail of inhuman agony escapes his throat. I shove my arm across his waist and fire three quick rounds into the darkness at the front of the building. Something sharp pricks the skin of my forearm.

Bone splinters.

The last shot smashed Ike’s pelvis. He screams again, the sound sickeningly reminiscent of those Sarah made when the narcotics began to lose their race to keep up with the pain of her bone lesions.

Who is shooting at us? An anonymous sniper, like the one who shot at me on the levee that night? The one Kelly killed? With a strange rush of clarity I realize that the levee sniper wasn’t shooting only at me, as I’d thought at the time. What did Ike say that night? How you know he was shooting at you? Ike had known from the beginning that he carried knowledge people would kill him for. As I cower behind his body, a voice calls out from the other end of the building.

“Give it up! The nigger’s dead!”

Before I can process these words, another truncated wail bursts from Ike’s lungs. “Brrrraaaaaaah!”

My instinct is to run for the door, run until my legs buckle beneath me. But that would be suicide. The moment I rise, I’ll make myself a target. I could probably crawl out . . . but Ike isn’t dead yet. I can’t leave him. My next thought, born from rage, is to stand up and charge the darkness that shields the sniper, emptying Ike’s automatic as I run.

With a defiant yell, I fire off two more rounds, then jump to my feet and grab Ike’s legs. Two shots boom through the building as I drag him facedown and screaming behind his cruiser, but the bullets crack past without finding flesh or bone.

Kneeling beside him, I break the most fundamental rule of first-aid by turning him over onto his back. At this point it can’t matter much. His eyes are still open. His jaw is moving, but no sounds come from his throat. I lean over his mouth.

“Brrr—” he groans.

I take one of his hands in mine and squeeze the cold flesh. “Ike? What are you saying?”

“Press me.”

He must think I can stop the bleeding. “Where? Your shoulder?”

“Pressleee . . .”