She reached for a couple of legal pads at the end of the table. “Deal. I would like to see Walter.” Plus, prime rib sounded good. She was missing a puzzle piece, something just out of her reach. Hopefully they could find it tonight.

* * *

After a dinner with too much cheesecake for dessert, Laurel sat back in Huck’s truck with the notepads held against her chest. “We didn’t narrow the suspect list.”

“We will.” He glanced her way as he drove through the fat snowflakes dropping on the windshield. Clouds covered the moon, and the night was quiet on the old country road that led away from the long-standing restaurant. They’d closed the place down, working diligently on their notes. “We just have to find him before he takes another woman.”

Several rapid shots boomed through the night. Bullets flew through the glass, and Huck jerked back with a pained snarl. A second later, the truck pitched and flew up into the air, hitting an embankment and rolling onto its top. Laurel’s seatbelt snapped tight against her chest, and her breath whooshed out of her lungs. Pain seared through her right arm and she cried out, hanging upside down in the hissing metal. Huck smashed into the side of the vehicle and then fell onto the interior of the roof. Metal crunched with the impact.

Then silence.

She blinked. Her mind spun and her stomach ached. Her ribs felt like a hot poker was wedged between them. “Huck?”

No sound came from the downed officer.

More bullets hit the truck in rapid succession.

“Huck!” She released her seatbelt and fell to the crumpled roof, her left hand catching her so she could flip around to her knees. Another volley attacked the truck, and she covered Huck’s prone body while reaching for her gun in the laptop bag. Her right arm ached and her fingers wouldn’t curl. When the volley stopped, she held her breath and bent down, the gun in her left hand. She was ambidextrous but definitely better with her right hand.

A figure stalked down the vacant road toward them, gun out, moving quickly and barely visible in the darkness.

She lifted her left hand, aimed, and squeezed off several shots through the already damaged windshield. The glass cracked loudly and her ears screamed in pain.

The figure dropped to the ground and fired back.

She crouched to cover Huck and scrambled in her coat pocket for her phone to dial 911.

“911—”

“Officer down on Hourglass Road about five miles from Raspy’s Restaurant,” she yelled, her voice already hoarse. “Active shooter, FBI agent engaged. Send backup.”

When the firing stopped, she peered into the darkness but couldn’t see the attacker. He must’ve been reloading. This was her only chance.