“Talk to me,” said Warren. His voice was rough and low. He set a small recorder on the seat and turned it on.

It took Hood twenty minutes. By then they were north of the city limits, paralleling the base on Avenue E. Through the cold air Hood could still smell the faint sweet odor of coming snow. The Joshua trees flickered in the wind.

“Describe the shooter again. Carefully. Everything about him.”

“Black male, six feet tall, medium-to-slender build. Sunglasses and a red bandana worn pirate-style. His face was narrow, not wide. His nose and mouth were unremarkable. His skin was very dark. His hoodie was black with the Detroit Tigers logo on it. He used an M249 squad assault weapon. He fired it right-handed, with the butt jammed into his middle and his left hand pushing down on the stock to keep the muzzle down. I recognized the gunner’s stance from my months in Iraq. Then he was gone. He could have been sixteen years old or forty. I’d guess young, by how easily he jumped the fence.”

Warren nodded but Hood saw that he was looking past him. “Not bad, Hood, for a guy with a machine gun firing at him.”

“I think it jammed.”

“God and his mysterious ways?”

“I don’t know anything about God. But my life was on his finger and I don’t know why I’m alive.”

“Tell me if you get any ideas about that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been up here in the desert?”

“Six months.”

“L.A. Internal Affairs speaks highly of you. I think highly of them. Some of them.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Bomber turned and looked at Hood, then back at the road.

“Do you know who I am?”