If they tried anything, they’d be in for a hell of a surprise.

He considered calling it in, then considered he might be having a paranoid old man moment.

Then the headlights leaped forward, and he knew his cop instinct hit bull’s-eye.

He punched it. He’d driven this road all his damn life, knew every curve and bend.

But he hadn’t expected to see a man—black, red do-rag, indeterminate age—rear out of the passenger window with a goddamn semiauto.

The first volley shattered his rear window, peppered his tailgate.

Definitely not a carjacking. They wanted him dead.

He gripped and whipped the wheel, drove the accelerator to the floor. The car—a freaking Jag he saw now as it skidded on the turn—fishtailed, fought for control, found it.

Creek coming up. He envisioned it, the way the road would veer toward the canyon, ride the bridge, veer back toward the sea.

He gained a little distance there, just a little. But the Jag kept coming, and so did the bullets.

He had to ease off the gas to navigate one of the blind turns, then headlights streaming toward him blinded him for an instant. He watched the oncoming sedan swerve, bump the shoulder as he roared past.

And hoped they had the sense God gave a moron and called it in, as he was a little too occupied to do so himself.

The Jag had the speed, it had the muscle, but its driver didn’t have the skill. The wasp-sting bite along his right shoulder told Red he needed to put that to the test.

He had the drop to the sea on his right, the cliff wall on his left, and a hairpin coming up only a desperate man would take at seventy miles an hour.

He took it at seventy-five, fighting to control the truck that tried to two-wheel it on him while his shoulder burned and bullets blew through the shattered window.

Behind him, the Jag lost its grip, overcompensated. And flew, just fucking flew over the guardrail.

His tires screamed and smoked when Red hit the brakes. He smelled burning rubber and blood—his own—as he battled the truck to a spinning stop. Behind him the smash and grind of glass and metal screamed. His hands trembled—he could admit that—as he loosened his death grip on the wheel, pulled over.

As he raced down the skinny shoulder, the explosion rocked the air. Fire seared it. He looked down at the twists of metal, the roar of flames, and calculated the chances of a survivor next to zero.

As cars began pulling over, he slid the gun in his hands to the back of his waistband.

“Keep clear,” he shouted. “I’m a cop.”

Or close enough, he thought.

He pulled out his phone.

“Mic, it’s Red. I’ve got a serious problem out here on Highway 1.”

And bending over, bracing his hands on his thighs as he pulled his breath back, he gave her the gist.

Along with cops, the fire department, paramedics, she came herself. Crime scene, accident detail, all of that went on around him. First responders, rappelling or climbing down the cliff to the wreckage, lights blasting and spinning.

She stood beside him while one of the medics treated his shoulder.

She had a husband now, and two kids—good kids—wore her hair in rows of braids that ended on a long tail of them.

And had put on the uniform before coming out. Because she was Mic, he thought, and would always choose structure.

He glanced down at his shoulder as whatever the medic did increased the sting. But he offered Mic a smile.

“Just a flesh wound.”

“You really see this as the time to quote some old B Western?”

“I was going more for Monty Python. Just nicked me, and trust me, I know I’m damn lucky. Best guess is the shooter—black, slim build, passenger seat—used an AR-15. Tailed me a couple miles before they made the move. Can’t give you dick on the driver, except he didn’t know how to handle the Jag, so it’s probably stolen. Add I don’t know anybody who can afford a Jag who’d want to shoot me dead.”

“You know anybody else who would?”

“Damn if I do, Mic.” He closed his eyes a moment. The adrenaline was long gone. He felt shaky and a little sick. “They had to see me leave Horizon.”

“You already said that. I’ve got men checking on them now.”

“Right.”

“You’re a little shocky, Mr. Buckman.”

Red studied the medic, remembered him as a teenager, skateboarder, a little bit of a troublemaker.

God, he was old.

“Getting shot at will do that. Sure could use a beer.”

“Do you want to take him in?” Mic asked the medic.

“I’m not going to the hospital for a graze on the shoulder and some normal reaction for not getting a bullet in the head.”

“He’s okay, Sheriff. He shouldn’t drive though.”

“What am I going to drive?” Seriously aggrieved, Red pointed at his truck. “Look what they did to my baby. I only bought that bastard last fall.”

“You know we have to take it in.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Hollis,” he said to the medic. “Good work.”

When Mic’s radio squawked, she stepped away while the once troublemaking skateboarder lectured Red about seeing his own doctor, changing the bandage, looking out for infection.

“I got it. I got it.” Red pushed up, walked to Mic. “What’s going on?”

“They’ve got a live one. He must’ve been thrown clear. He’s unconscious, busted up, but he’s breathing. Found the weapon, too. AR-15.”

“I still got the eye.” He sighed when the tow truck pulled up.

“Is there anything you want to get out of the truck before we take it in?”

“Yeah, I got a cooler in there, spare clothes. Fucking fuck, Mic.”

“Get your stuff. I’ll have someone drive you back to Horizon.”

Maybe a little sick, maybe a little shaky, he thought, but goddamn. “Hey, I’m in this. I am this.”

“Your family’s going to be worried about you, Red. They’re going to worry until they see you.”

Family. She had it right.

“I need to—”

“You don’t have to ask,” she interrupted. “What I know, you’ll know.”

She insisted on structure, on procedure and discipline. But she reached out, hugged him hard. “I’m glad you didn’t get shot in the head.”

“Me, too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

By the time Dillon drove that stretch of road a couple hours later, only some barricade lights, some police tape, a single cruiser remained.

“There must’ve been an accident.”

He nodded, and since cops remained, figured it for a bad one, one they needed to wait until first light to fully investigate.

“Red’ll know. He’s probably staying at his place tonight. My ladies had their monthly book club, political activist, feminist celebration tonight.”

“All that?”

“And more. Red either hangs at my place or heads to his own.”

“I may have to join. Gram mentioned it before, but . . . I’m usually not a joiner. Meeting your friends makes me think I could crack that window a little more.”

“They liked you. I’d know if they didn’t.”