"Freeze, asshole!"

Nick had to admit, even as a cliche, the words-yelled with a deep and hard voice-do make you freeze. They are cop words. And even though they are heard on television and in the movies more than on the real streets, real cops watch TV too. Stuck on all fours with his butt in the air, he had to be hopeful. After the initial shock, he started to turn his head.

"I said don't fucking move," the voice said, big and very male. There was a heavy crunch of gravel now sounding behind him.

Nick kept his nose down. His palms were flat on the roof surface. A vulnerable position, to say the least. He heard more footsteps moving closer and rolled his eyes up and forward to see the edge of the roofline. Still no scratches, only open air, four stories up. Could you survive a forty-foot jump? Or a forty-foot fall after someone kicked you over the edge?

"It's the reporter, Sergeant," a smaller voice said. Nick recognized it as Cameron's.

"I know what the fuck it is," the other voice said.

The crunch of the footsteps was now directly behind him. Nick lifted his right hand and pointed up and back, at his right rear pocket.

"My I.D. is in my wallet, sir," he said into the smell of tar rising into his nose. "I'm Nick Mullins, from the Daily News."

"Good for you," the voice said. "I told you NOT TO FUCKING MOVE!"

Nick froze the arm and took a deep breath. He was now in a three-point stance, the sharp edge of a stone digging into his left palm. For some reason he had not registered the heat before. Now it was like he was hovering over a stove, waves rising into his shirt. He could feel sweat forming on his back. A line trickled across his rib cage. He wondered silently if sweat from someone lying up here waiting to shoot could be retrieved, if it could be used as a DNA marker.

"I can confirm that, Sergeant," he heard Cameron's voice say. "It is Mullins."