Bill nodded. “I got him, John. I got the bastard. Terry’s down! She’s down! Keegan’s calling it in. Secure the wit.”
John heard Keegan’s voice over the drum of rain, rapidly relaying the situation.
And he heard the creak of a floorboard.
He came out, weapon up. He saw Bill moving on him, saw his eyes. “Drop your weapon. Drop it!”
“Terry’s down! They’re going to try for the front.”
“Lower your weapon, now!”
John saw Bill glance to the left, pivoted, elbowed back before Keegan could land a blow. As John dived to the right, Cosgrove fired. The bullet caught his side, burned like a brand. Thinking of Elizabeth, he returned fire as he raced for the stairs. Another bullet hit his leg, but he didn’t slow. He caught a glimpse of Keegan moving into position, fired on the run.
And took a third bullet in the belly.
His vision grayed, but somehow he kept moving. He caught sight of Elizabeth running out of the bedroom.
“Get inside. Get back inside!”
He lurched forward, shoving her in, locking the door before he fell to his knees.
“Oh my God.” She grabbed the shirt she’d just taken off, used it to apply pressure to his abdomen.
“It’s Cosgrove and Keegan.”
“They’re marshals.”
“Somebody got to them.” Teeth gritted, he risked a look at his belly wound, felt himself slipping. “Oh, Jesus. Maybe they’ve been dirty all along. Terry. She’s down. Maybe dead.”
“No.”
“They know I’m in here with you, that I’ll fire on anyone who tries coming in the door.” As long as he could hold aweapon. “But they know I’m hit.” He gripped her wrist with his left hand. “It’s bad, Liz.”
“You’ll be all right.” But she couldn’t stop the blood. Already her shirt was soaked through, and it just kept pouring out of him, flooding like the rain. “We’ll call for help.”
“Lost the phone. Keegan, he’s got connections—in the service, he’s connected. He’s moved up fast. Don’t know who else might be in it. Can’t know. Not safe, kid. Not safe.”
“You have to lie still. I have to stop the bleeding.” Pressure, she told herself. More pressure.
“They should have rushed me. Planning something else. Not safe. Listen. Listen.” His fingers dug into her wrist. “Gotta get out. Out the window. Climb down, jump down. But get out. You run. You hide.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You’re going. Get your money. Can’t trust the cops, not now. More in it. Have to be. Get your money, what you need. Fast. God damn it. Move!”
She did it to keep him calm. But she wouldn’t leave him.
She stuffed the money in a bag, a few items of clothing at random, her laptop.
“There. Don’t worry,” she said. “Someone will come.”
“No, they won’t. I’m gut shot, Liz, lost too much blood. I’m not going to make it. I can’t protect you. You have to run. Get my secondary weapon—ankle holster. Take it. If one of them sees you, comes after you, use it.”
“Don’t ask me to leave you. Please, please.” She pressed her face to his. He was so cold. Too cold.
“Not asking. Telling. My job. Don’t make me a failure. Go. Go now.”
“I’ll get help.”
