He’d called Marsha earlier to tell her that he would be late—again. He recapped everything that had happened in Tobias and shocked her with their discovery about Shaw Kinnard.

“He’s good. Fooled Jordie Bennett. The rest of us, too. Hick almost shot him.”

“What’s he like?”

“Like?”

“As a person.”

Joe hem-hawed a description, circled the wagons, backtracked, tried again. Marsha interrupted and asked, “Is he Maverick, Iceman, or Goose?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Which is he?”

“I don’t know, Marsha. He’s—”

“Of the three.”

“Then Iceman.”

“Okay.”

Before hanging up, he’d asked, “Which am I?”

“Goose. Definitely.”

A slightly disappointing answer.

When the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, the two young marshals were there to greet them. One held up a hand. “Hold tight. SUVs are rolling.”

Through the open elevator door, Joe watched the three vehicles whiz past. They looked intimidating and official with darkly tinted windows and flashing lights in their tricked-out grilles. After a few moments, one of the marshals said, “SUVs are clear of the garage. Motorcycle cops are opening up the street.”

“Okay, Hick, we’re good to go,” Joe said into his mike.

Then, one of the marshals said, “Hold it. We’ve got a clown at three o’clock.”

Gwen backed Jordie into the corner of the elevator. Joe whispered for Hick to wait, drew his weapon, and peered around the open door toward the street entrance where the “clown” was strolling in on foot. Undeterred by the automated red-and-white-striped arm at the ticket dispenser, he went around it without breaking stride.

He had on a maroon hoodie, sunglasses with blue lenses, several strands of Mardi Gras beads, and was laughing into the cell phone held against his ear.

“Shit.” One of the marshals relaxed his obvious tension. “It’s Kinnard.”

No sooner had he recognized Kinnard than an undercover policeman and a man in uniform rushed into the garage. “He’s ours,” the marshal called out to them. “We got it covered in here.” They waved and retreated.

“Good to go, Hick,” Joe said into the mike.

Kinnard dropped the pretense and pocketed his cell phone. He pushed back the hood and pulled off the sunglasses as he approached the elevator.

Joe said, “You’re screwing the plan.”

“Bad plan. Where’s Jordie?”

Joe motioned into the elevator. Coming abreast of it, Kinnard looked inside and acknowledged her with a nod, then asked Joe, “Where’s Hickam?”

“On his way. You have an alternate plan?”

“You ride shotgun. Gwen and I will flank Jordie in the backseat.” He looked toward the entrance. “If I waltzed in here, Panella can.”

“The officers were hot on your heels.”

“Yeah, but…” He gave the garage a visual sweep. “It’s dicey.”

“Panella’s too slick to walk into—”

“But he might send another Mickey Bolden, who’s desperate for money and has nothing to lose by trying. Where the fuck is Hickam?”

“He should be here any sec.”

“I agree. He should. How far away did he park?”

“Half a block.”

“Half a block?” Kinnard’s head came around and locked eyes with Joe.

They held each other’s stare for no more than a heartbeat before they moved at the same time and ran toward the entrance through which Kinnard had just come. As Kinnard pulled his nine-millimeter, he called back to the marshals, “Don’t let Jordie out of your sight.”

When they got outside, Joe yelled toward the two officers who’d followed Kinnard into the garage. They turned and fell in behind them.

Kinnard kept pace with Joe. “What does the new car look like?”

“Like Hick’s,” Joe panted.

“Dammit, it’s dark down here.”

“That was the idea.”

They spotted the sedan simultaneously and sprinted toward it. From several yards away, Joe saw that Hick was in the driver’s seat, unmoving. He came to an abrupt stop, crying out, “Oh no no no no!”

Kinnard covered the remaining distance at full tilt. He actually skidded to a halt and banged into the side of the car as he yanked open the driver’s door. Hick didn’t stir. He was slumped sideways toward the passenger seat. There was blood on his face, his neck, shoulder. The left sleeve of his suit jacket was saturated. His dangling hand was dripping red.

Shaw reached in. “He’s got a pulse,” he shouted back.

Joe didn’t remember until later when he saw the bruises on his kneecaps that he had literally dropped to them in relief. At the time, he’d been fumbling with the mike on his shoulder, shouting into it “Officer down!” and ordering the two policemen coming abreast of him to put in emergency calls.

Within seconds officers came running from every direction. Joe pushed himself up and stumbled over to the car, where Kinnard had his fingers dug in deep against Hick’s neck. Blood was seeping through them.

Joe blinked a combination of sweat and tears out of his eyes. “Is he conscious?”

“No.”

“The carotid, you think?”

“Fuckin’ Panella.”

“Is he going to make it?”

Kinnard was about to say something, but then turned his head, and looked into Joe’s face, and made a quick edit. “Better have his suit cleaned before he comes around. He’s gonna be pissed that it got messed up.”

Joe wanted to thank him for that. But his throat was too tight to say anything.

It seemed like forever, but was actually only a few minutes later that an ambulance roared up and squealed to a stop. Joe and Kinnard were pushed aside as paramedics pulled Hick from the car and went to work on him. Before Joe could quite reconcile that this was actually happening, they’d strapped his partner onto a gurney and placed it in the ambulance.

His instinct was to climb in behind them and ride along. Hick might not make it. If he weren’t already dead, he might die en route. Joe needed to be there with him. He had to go!

But he was a law enforcement officer, and the best thing he could do for Hick, whether he survived or not, was to catch the son of a bitch who’d done this.

By now NOPD patrol cars had the street blocked. Others were running hot up and down intersecting streets searching for the assailant. Patrol officers on foot were doing the same. Two homicide detectives in plainclothes isolated Joe and began asking questions.

He produced his ID and described the situation.

“You ran from the garage to look for Agent Hickam?” one asked.

“He was late, which signaled me that something was wrong.”

“And you found him inside the car?”

“Yes,” Joe replied. “We—”

Joe broke off suddenly and looked around. First responders were doing their specific tasks. Uniformed policemen were holding back the crowd of curiosity seekers who had already gathered behind a temporary barricade. Gwen and the other two marshals were being questioned collectively by plainclothes detectives.