Savich fired, hit the gun, and sent it flying out of the man’s hands, skidding across the oak floor to fetch up against a chair leg. The young man howled and lunged toward Kara, his hands outstretched. Savich fired again, striking him high in the shoulder. He flinched, but it didn’t stop him. His hands were reaching toward her big belly. Savich took careful aim and fired just as Kara lurched back in the chair and it toppled over. The bullet blew a cloud of blood from the man’s head, and he jerked backward at the impact. But it had only grazed him, and he whirled around again to face Savich. He looked confused, like a child being disciplined for something he didn’t understand. He licked dry lips, whispered, “I don’t understand. You’re not a god. They don’t want me dead. Who are you?” He grabbed his shoulder when his brain finally recognized his pain, and he staggered, tears streaming down his face. He slammed his other hand to his head, and brought it down again, stared at the blood seaming between his fingers. He made a small mewling sound, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell on his side to the floor. He was out.
Savich pulled Kara’s chair back up, saw she was all right. “Hold on.” He knew everyone had heard the shots. He raced to the window to see a newly arrived SWAT team jogging toward the house, their weapons at the ready, bulletproof shields in front of them as they prepared to rush the house. He heard Mayer’s voice shouting, “Go, go, go!”
As if choreographed, a dozen cops rose up from behind their police cars to fan out behind them. Savich threw open the door, raised his creds in the air through the opening, yelled, “FBI! The shooter is down! It’s over! The shooter is down!”
It was as if they didn’t see him, hadn’t heard him, as if they were guided missiles set on their course. They kept coming. Savich understood the adrenaline rush, knew their training had hardwired them not to stop until they got to Kara Moody.
He yelled again, “FBI. Dillon Savich! The man is alive but he’s down! Don’t shoot! It’s over!”
The SWAT team leader stopped, raised his hand. “Is that you, Savich? Dillon Savich?”
It was Luke Palmer, twenty-year veteran, a man he’d met a couple of years before at the gym, a man he knew was scary good at his job.
“Luke, yes, it’s me, Savich! He’s down, unconscious! Ms. Moody is unhurt.”
“But how did you— Never mind.” Luke turned, spoke to his team, then shouted to the cops surrounding the house, “Stand down! It’s Agent Dillon Savich. The shooter is down!”
There were shouts in return, and Luke yelled out again, “It’s over! Stand down!” He and his people lowered their weapons and were soon all in the house. Luke paused a moment and shook Savich’s hand. “Nice work.”
Detective Mayer roared through the open front door, yelled, “What do you mean it’s over? Savich? What is the fricking FBI even doing here?”
Savich looked over at Mayer, a man who relied on intimidation to get his way, a man who liked to enforce rules but only if they didn’t apply to him. He’d always disliked Savich, called him a glory hound to his face and who knew what else behind his back. What would Mayer call him now? Savich didn’t care. He turned back into the house. He’d deal with Mayer later.
He saw Luke and his SWAT team had already secured the man’s rifle and clamped his wrists in front of him with flex-cuffs, even though he was unconscious. Savich supposed the bullet that had grazed his head had knocked him out. He hoped there was no more serious damage. A team member began applying pressure to the shoulder wound and another pressed a bandage against the man’s head. The bullet wound in his shoulder looked to be through and through, hopefully not too serious.
Savich went to Kara Moody. A Metro officer was cutting the duct tape from around her ankles and wrists with a pocket knife. She gasped in pain when her wrists were freed. The officer gently pulled her arms back in front of her and began rubbing her wrists.
Savich went down on his haunches in front of her. “Your shoulders should stop hurting soon, and in a couple of minutes you’ll have your feeling back.”
Kara stared at him, licked her dry lips. “You shot him twice. He’s not dead, is he?”
“No, he’s not dead. You don’t know who he is?”
She shook her head, a hank of sweaty hair stuck to her cheek. “I’ve never seen him before in my life. He said he wanted to save me from something, but when the cops arrived he thought they were here to take him, and take me, too—somewhere, he didn’t say. He was mumbling, shaking, and a couple of times he staggered.” She stopped talking, took a breath. Then she attempted a smile. “I know who you are—you’re Dr. Janice’s friend, Dillon Savich, the FBI agent. She’s told me about you. She told me she was glad she had at least one friend at the top of the food chain, someone who kicked big butt.”
He started to say something about Sherlock kicking big butt, instead he said only, “Yes. Dr. Janice called me.”
“If she hadn’t, I might be dead. Thank you.”
He smiled, still feeling the rush of adrenaline pumping through him. “I’m as relieved as you are that we’re both still alive.” He looked toward the unconscious young man. “I’m glad he’s alive, too.”
Savich felt her eyes on his face. “He looks so young. Why me? Why did he come here, to me?” Her breathing hitched and a lone tear streaked down her cheek. She tried to raise her arm, but it still hurt too much. Savich wiped the tear away. She said against his hand, her own hands on her belly, “Thank you for our lives.” She looked over at the still figure. “He is mad, isn’t he?”
Savich saw the living room had filled with cops, most of them shooting looks at him. He turned back to Kara. “He seemed to be.” He noticed how hard she must have pulled against the duct tape that bound her ankles and wrists, hard enough to leave angry furrows. “Now you need to get back to thinking about yourself and your baby. There’s nothing more to be afraid of. The police will find out who he is and why he came here to you.” Savich hoped that would be true, that Mayer would chase it down.
A paramedic came to look at Kara. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
She managed a nod.
“How does he look?” Savich asked, nodding toward the young man being loaded onto a gurney.
“The shoulder doesn’t look bad. The bullet tore through fat and muscle and exited. There’s always a lot of bleeding from scalp wounds, but his skull seems intact. We don’t know why he’s unconscious, though. We need to get him to a CT scanner right away.” He gave Savich a salute. “He was either very lucky or that was good shooting,” and he ran after the departing gurney.
Savich heard Mayer shout his name. He rose and turned to see Fireplug charging him like an enraged bull. He didn’t want to have to deal with Mayer now, with everyone’s adrenaline still running high, with violent emotions still boiling below the surface. He didn’t want to have to punch him out, say something he’d be sure to regret later. Then again, maybe not. No, he had to keep a lid on it. Where was Ben Raven when he needed him? Savich straightened, looked at Mayer straight on, and kept his voice calm. “Detective Mayer, you’ll be pleased to know Ms. Moody is all right.”
“I don’t care if you live here, or if a neighbor called you! It doesn’t matter. You had no right to enter her house!”
Savich imagined hurling Mayer through the window, watching him land on his face in the rosebushes. But that wouldn’t do. Savich turned his back on Mayer and helped Kara Moody stand up. She sagged against him, and he held her up, began rubbing her back. Her belly was as big as Sherlock’s had been right before Sean was born. He realized he’d rubbed Sherlock’s back just that way.
He heard Mayer’s furious voice. “I’m going to see you brought up on charges, you pushy bastard, you interfered in a police matter. You’ve got no defense.”
Before Savich could figure out how to answer Fireplug, he heard Detective Ben Raven’s voice shouting, “It’s all right, Aldo! Pull yourself together. Savich checked with me first!”
Savich thought that sounded good, even righteous.
Mayer whipped around, his face red, his pulse pounding in his neck. “Don’t try to protect him, Raven! He shouldn’t be here and neither should you! I was over on Wisconsin when the call came in, I was first on scene. I don’t even know how he got into the house without any of us seeing him.”
Savich said, “Dr. Janice Hudson, whose house is directly next door, called me because I live on the next block. She was a psychiatrist for nearly half a century, and she was certain he was on the edge, that there wasn’t time to wait. She knew a back way into the house.”
Raven grabbed Mayer’s arm before he could move on Savich. “Use your brain, Aldo, calm down! The hostage is okay. The shooter is down. We won. We all won. Isn’t that victory enough?”