I pushed away my coffee cup and stood. “Yeah, why?”
“Because there’s been another shooting.”
9
JAGG
Ipulled my gun just as Colson’s truck skidded to a stop at the edge of City Park. The heat hit like a wall the second we killed the engine—thick, stifling, heavy with the scent of dust, sweat, and sunbaked pine. The treetops were washed in moonlight, the ground shaded in shadows. Two lampposts, around fifteen feet apart, barely illuminated the trail and the two silhouettes standing just past it.
Colson threw the truck into park, hand flying to his weapon. But I was already out the door, boots crunching dry grass as I hit the ground running. Behind me, he called in for backup, his voice sharp and urgent, but it barely registered.
The air was dense enough to choke on. A storm of cicadas screamed in the trees. Behind me, Colson called for backup, but his voice was fading fast.
Everything narrowed. My focus. My hearing. My world.
Active shooter or homicide. Immediate threat first—then the next, then the next. Prioritize. Neutralize. Move. That was the drill. Always the drill.
My boots thudded over the dry brittle grass, moonlight flashing off the slide of my Glock. Double grip. Barrel up. I moved fast and low, closing the distance with purpose.
Ahead, a pistol trembled in old man Erickson’s grip—his hand shaking so badly, it quivered like a leaf in a storm.
“Gun down, Erickson!”
The man didn’t hear me. Jacked up on adrenaline, I assumed. His gaze was fixed on the two bodies at the edge of the woods. One standing, one motionless on the ground.
“I said put the gundown, Erickson.” I stepped forward, voice steady but firm, cutting through the thick summer night. “This is Detective Max Jagger and Lieutenant Colson. We’ve got it from here. Put the weapon down.”
To my left, I caught movement—Colson, slipping through the tree line, staying low, skirting the trail like a shadow.
I edged in slowly, eyes locked on the old man’s shaking hand. His finger twitched on the trigger, just enough to make my stomach tighten.
Then everything happened at once.
Colson burst from the woods and slammed into Erickson, knocking him to the ground. The pistol flew, skidding across the dirt. The old man shouted, unleashing a string of curses that would’ve gotten him barred from Sunday service for life.
The gun was down. One threat neutralized.
I didn’t pause.
I pivoted fast and locked onto threat number two, my gun pointed directly at the dark silhouette’s head.
“Get on your knees,” I yelled.
Just then, a siren sliced the air and blue and red lights bounced off the trees, brief flashes illuminating my target. I blinked, my steps wavering. No way was I seeing clearly.Headlights moved along trees, stopping perfectly on the scene ahead of me, illuminating it as if it were on stage.
I froze, confusion—shock—momentarily clouding the focus I was known for. The sounds around me, the shouts, the flashing lights, everything faded as I looked at her.
A gust of wind blew a mane of long, curly, black hair across a pale, blood-spattered face. Her eyes, an emerald green, reflected in the headlights like a cat.
Fury radiated off her in waves.
She wore a pink tank top, gray leggings, jogging shoes. Normal. Innocent. And yet, her entire body was streaked in red. A spray of blood painted her chest and neck like some kind of twisted war paint. Her arms were dotted with it—her knuckles, her chin.
And in her right hand, steady as stone, was a gun.
Pointed at the man lying dead at her feet.
My hands moved on instinct, realigning my sights, but I knew—Iknew—I’d already dropped off my target. Something I’d never done. Not once. Not in all the chaos, not in all the wars, not in all the blood-soaked rooms I’d cleared.
