Page 88 of Into the Fire

At five feet away, Nuñez was the closer threat. Forty pounds heavier, he was the larger one, too.

But Brust would have Evan in his sights first. Evan couldn’t reach him in time.

As he played through the extrapolation of the next three seconds, a pair of thoughts struck him. One: Given his concussion, he hadn’t run the simulated scenarios as quickly as he usually did. And two: That split-second delay meant that he could not cover both men.

There was no version that didn’t end with him getting shot.

That’s when the table scooted of its own accord, skittering forward two feet and slamming into Brust’s thigh. Brust staggered, buying Evan another instant to focus on Nuñez.

The big detective’s hand had already reached the hip holster, the Glock rising, not yet clearing leather.

Evan drove into Nuñez.

As the Glock rose, swinging to target Evan’s critical mass, Evan swept it to the side with a cupped hand, accelerating the momentum from the draw. Curling his fingers over the top of the slide, Evan steered Nuñez’s arm along the trajectory it was already traveling, the weapon carried in a straight-armed swivel.

It whipped through another fifteen degrees, and then Evan jerked the weapon to a halt, the jolt causing Nuñez’s hand to clench.

His finger constricted around the trigger.

Evan had halted the pistol with the front sights aligned on Brust’s head.

Droplets painted the rear wall.

Brust crumpled.

Nuñez gasped, a screeching intake of air.

To his credit he did not release the Glock. He had a better grip on the weapon and was much stronger to begin with, so Evan released the barrel. His other hand was already grabbing for the pens in Nuñez’s shirt pocket.

As Nuñez took a clunky step to the side to regain his balance, Evan tore a pen free. He spun into Nuñez, throwing his weight backward, slamming his shoulders into Nuñez’s chest, tilting his head forward to protect it from colliding with Nuñez’s chin.

As Nuñez barked out a grunt, Evan tightened his fist around the pen and slammed it down past his own hip into the inside of Nuñez’s thigh.

Now the big man dropped the Glock.

He lurched back stiffly, struck the wall, and slid down to a sitting position, his legs kicked out before him. With disbelief he looked down at the pen protruding from his thigh, the dark stain spreading through the fabric of his slacks. Then he curled his hand around the pen, holding it in place.

Evan looked past Brust’s fallen body and the knocked-askew table to where Max sprawled on the floor, tilted back on his ass. His foot was still raised from when he’d kicked the table into Brust.

Behind him there was a black hole where Brust’s round had buried itself in the wall; it must have missed his head by inches when Max hit the floor.

Evan unwound the Ace bandage from his head, enjoying his first clear breath of air since he’d entered the station. “Thanks.”

Max’s nod looked like a tremor.

Evan moved over to Brust and started tugging off the detective’s shoes. The big man’s legs hung from Evan’s grip, deadweight.

In the corner Nuñez choked out a grunt of pain.

Evan finished with the loafers and got to work on Brust’s belt. “You’re gonna want to keep pressure on,” he said, not bothering to look over at Nuñez. “The pen is buried in your femoral artery. If you let go, you’ll bleed out in seconds.”

Nuñez grunted, eyeing his fallen service weapon a few feet past the tips of his shoes. So tempting.

Evan stripped off his own jeans and stepped into Brust’s pants. A bit loose, but they fit well enough. The button-up took a bit more doing. The collar was stained, but not terribly. Next Evan worked the badge lanyard carefully over the mess of Brust’s head and ducked into it.

He made for a passable detective.

Nuñez watched the fashion show, his upper lip wrinkled back from his teeth like a dog’s.