“That’s what you thought of?” Wiggins said after a few seconds. “In fucking Iraq? You are one weird dude, Steve-O.”

“Hey, Wiggins.” Frames let his head fall back on the top of the seat. “Do you think if I came down there and pounded your ass, there’s any chance you’d stop calling me that?”

“Wait a second, boys.” Buckley suddenly serious. “We’ve got somebody on the move. One. Two of them. Running fast.”

Frames sat up and peered down the street. He couldn’t see anything. “Where?”

“Back of the driveway.” Buckley spoke quickly. “It’s Cervantes. And somebody else. Male. Six feet. See them?”

Frames stared ahead. A hedge blocked his view. “What’re they doing?”

“Looks like Cervantes is trying to get away from the guy.” Wiggins this time. “Wait. The guy’s got something in his hands. Poles.”

“Poles?”

“Or, sticks. Let me get the scope.”

Frames still couldn’t see anyone. He heard Wiggins’s scope bang against the window glass.

“Oh, shit. They’re swords.”

“Wait. What?” Frames yelled. “Did you say swords?”

“Yeah. You know, like a pirate.”

“You see them, Frames?” Buckley breathless. “They’re fucking behind us, on your side, turning into the street.”

Frames leaned close to the windshield. He could see Cervantes now racing toward him down the sidewalk. Bathrobe open, hair flying, face wild with fear. Behind her a man with a sword swinging in each hand.

Frames pulled the Glock from its holster. He let Cervantes run past. Then, opening the car door, he leveled the gun at the approaching figure. “STOP. Police.”

The figure kept coming. He was close enough now that Frames could see the guy’s shaved head, bare chest, and heavily tattooed upper arms.

“STOP,” Frames shouted again.

With the man nearly in front of him, Frames fired a shot and saw it hit the man but not slow his approach.

“Frames, Frames.” Wiggins yelling in his ear.

Buckley on the radio: “David 12. Shots fired. 418 Greenwood Avenue. Code three medical.”

The man lunged with the right-handed sword over the top of the car door. Frames shielded himself with the door and fell backward inside the car. Thrown across the driver’s seat and console, Frames fired again and missed. The attacker thrust the sword through the doorway. The blade sliced into Frames’s calf like a hot poker.

Half a block away, the Ford’s engine roared.

The attacker ripped the blade out and came at Frames again—this time with the sword held in his left hand.

Frames steadied his gun and fired three times. The rounds hit the man in the chest.

The Ford screamed down the street, skidding to a stop.

The attacker fell, slamming onto the doorframe and landing on Frames’s legs. The man lay still. Frames saw his own arms extended, frozen in place, blood sprayed across his fingers, the tip of the Glock nearly touching the top of the man’s head.