We were only halfway there when three or four fast-moving shadows ran across our path. Maybe fifty feet ahead. They looked like kids to me, just like Jamal had said.

    One of them fired from the hip as he went, not even trying to keep covered. Then they all opened up on us. It was like some kind of Old West shoot-out; they appeared to have no fear at all, no concept of dying.

    Bree and I dropped down and fired back from ground level. Bullets sparked off the asphalt and trucks in the dark, but we couldn't see who we were shooting at now or where they were headed.

    “Kids,” Bree said.

    “Killers,” I corrected her.

    A second heavy exchange of fire came from the next row over of trucks. One of the team members, Art Sheiner, shouted out that he'd been hit too.

    Then everything was quiet again.

    “Sheiner?” I radioed.

    He didn't respond.

    “McDonald?”

    No response either.

    “Sampson, we need medical with that backup.”

    “On its way. I'm coming down now.”

    “Stay up there, John. We need a spotter, more than ever. Stay where you are!”

    “Sir, it's Connors.” He was the rookie of the group and his voice was tight. “I found Jamal. He's down. There's a lot of blood.”

    “Stay with him! But watch yourself.”

    “Twenty-two-oh-four.” It was Frank Nicolo. “Sheiner's here. He's down. No pulse. I think he's gone.”

    Then, suddenly, there were more shots!

Cross Country

Chapter 17

    WE WERE UP and running again. Two officers had been shot, and an unknown number of assailants were at the service plaza. A second ambush opened up on us. A bullet streaked by my face.