Page 67 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Sir? Can you step out here and talk to me?”

No answer.

The hairs at my nape stand up. Where the hell did he go?

I hit my shoulder mike. “Ten-seven-eight. Get Skid out here. Expedite.”

Never taking my eyes from the vehicle, sweeping the beam left and right, I walk backward, toward my Explorer. “Driver! Show yourself!”

My hand slides down to my service revolver. I thumb off the leather strap, tug it out. All the while I’m keenly aware that I have no cover. That I’m visible in the headlight beams.

The crack of a gunshot splits the air. I hear it ping into the Explorer behind me. Every nerve in my body jerks taut. A thousand alarms blast in my brain. A hot slash of adrenaline sears my belly.

“Shit. Shit.”

I turn, run headlong toward the Explorer. Vaguely I’m aware of my flashlight beam playing crazily against the trees ahead. Insects flying in the beams.

I hit my lapel mike. “Shots fired! Shots fired! Shots fired!”

I’m scant feet from my vehicle when a second gunshot rings out. Then a third. I reach the Explorer, my hand against the hood. I’m midway to the rear when something slams into my left forearm. A sledgehammer sharpened to a razor point, swung by a four-hundred-pound sumo wrestler. Pain zings down my arm; my fingers go numb. My boots lose purchase on the gravel, and I go down hard, land on my left hip.

Pain registers like a blast furnace against my skin. I flop onto my belly. I lose my grip on the Maglite, make a wild grab for it, watch helplessly as it rolls out of reach.

I scramble to my hands and knees, clutching my .38, animal sounds tearing from my throat. I speed-crawl to the rear of the Explorer. Hunker down, my back against the bumper.

“Fuck!” I’m panting when I grapple for my mike. “Shots fired! Hogpath Road!” I scream. “Need assistance! Shots fired!”

I risk a look around the edge of the bumper. No movement. No sign of the driver. I try to ascertain the make and model of the vehicle, but I’m blinded by the headlights. Sliding lower, I glance beneath the Explorer, spot my flashlight on the ground, a couple of feet from the left front tire. Too risky to reach. Traffic coming over my radio registers in my mind. Backup is on the way. All I have to do is stay put.…

Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to stay calm. But I’m vulnerable, especially if there’s more than one shooter. I can’t see shit because of the headlights. Worse, while the Explorer’s engine or frame will stop a bullet, a round will go right through other parts of the vehicle. Pain pounds like a jackhammer in my forearm, keeping time with a pulse that’s raging out of control. I lift it and look, try to gauge the damage. All I can see is the black glint of blood on my shirt, dripping into the gravel like gobs of tar.

I look beneath the vehicle again. No sign of anyone on the other side. No sound of footsteps. Maglite is still there, out of reach, pointing the wrong way.

Two more shots clang against the Explorer. My nerves jump like electrical wires. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the shooter has a rifle, if he’s coming around to get me. I scramble to the passenger side of the Explorer, peer out. I see someone pass in front of the headlights of the truck. A male. Six feet tall. A hundred seventy-five pounds. Rifle in hand. Ten yards away. Too close. Raising my weapon, I fire two shots in quick succession.

“I’m a police officer!” I scream. “Drop your weapon! Do it now! Drop it!”

Vaguely, I’m aware of a dozen codes coming over my radio. I hear a car door slam. I scramble to the other side of the Explorer, keeping my vehicle between us. I’m on the ground, my back against the rear quarter panel. I peer around the bumper. No movement. No one there.

The truck’s engine revs and I know the driver is coming for me.

I scuttle to the right front tire of the Explorer in time to see the vehicle lurch forward. The headlights play crazily against the trees as the tires bounce over rough ground. When the vehicle reaches the road, rubber barks against asphalt, then the tires grab. The truck jets backward—ten, twelve, fourteen yards—and skids to a halt. The driver cuts the wheel. Gears grind, then the vehicle leaps forward.

I fire two shots, but my aim is off. Panic hovers at the fringe of my brain. The kind of panic that can lead to deadly mistakes, and I struggle to keep my head, stay calm.

“Easy,” I whisper. “Easy. Easy. Easy.”

Engine screaming, the driver does an abrupt U-turn. Tires sliding, the vehicle spins, and I know he’s going to run. Gravel flies, pings against the Explorer. Through the rise of dust, I see the red of taillights. Taking aim, I fire my last two rounds.

“You son of a bitch!” I grapple for my shoulder mike. “Suspect is eastbound on Hogpath Road! Pickup truck. Extended cab. Blue or black. Long bed. Male driver is armed!”

My radio is a cacophony of calls. Every cop within twenty miles and regardless of jurisdiction is on his way to assist. When a shots-fired call goes out, you drop everything and you haul your ass to the scene.

I hear sirens in the distance. Around me, the fields and woods seem unnaturally quiet. My Explorer is still running. Insects swarm in the headlights. I get up. Unsteady on my feet. I walk around to the driver’s side, spot my Maglite on the ground, and pick it up.

Something dark hits the ground next to my boot. At first I think it’s a bug, then realize my forearm is bleeding. I’ve yet to get a look at it. I don’t think anything is broken. Still, it hurts plenty.

I need an ambulance, but I don’t make the call. Instead, I lean against the Explorer’s front fender. I holster my .38 and tug out my phone. I let gravity take me down to a squatting position. Using my uninjured hand, I reach for my lapel mike.