"How 'bout you come up here and-" He launched into a graphic description of what he wanted her to do for him and what he was going to do to her. She hoped to God the children didn't understand.

"Let the kids go and we can talk about it," she shouted. "You want money? You want a ride outa here?"

"I want what's mine!" the shadowy figure with the gun yelled. "It's got nothing to do with you, bitch. Leave me alone and nobody will get hurt!" Something from the interior of the house caught his attention. He swiveled around. Yelled something she couldn't make out. Then the gun went off again.

Hadley was up and moving without thinking, running toward the house, her Glock 9 mm awkward and slippery in her hand. If she had any plan at all, it was to get past the end of the porch to the corner of the house, where he couldn't see her without opening a window and leaning out. He turned back toward her. She could see the outlines of his face now, his eyes glittering in the dimness of the front room. He brought up the.357. She heard the breath sawing in and out of her chest, the howling of women and children, the susurration of tires on dirt and gravel, and she knew she wasn't going to make the shelter of the house in time.

Oh God oh God oh God oh God-she heard the shot, higher and keener than the last two, and dove toward the hewn stone foundation, rolling hard into its cool dampness. The blow stunned her, numbed her, and she beat against herself with one hand while trying to raise her gun to a defensive position with the other, all the while wondering, Where is it? Where am I hit?

Then her head steadied and she looked back across the dooryard. A big red pickup straddled the drive-defensively sideways, not head-on like her cruiser. Russ Van Alstyne, the Millers Kill chief of police, had his arms braced on the hood of the truck, his Glock.40 tight in a two-handed grip, pointing at the porch. The gun, she realized, that she had just heard discharging.