“Alyssa, I could use your brain over here,” Sam shouted, and she came running into the gatehouse.

Outside, Noah and Claire were getting into their car and backing out, onto the street.

“They’re going to find a phone,” Alyssa reported as she set Nos’s shoes—he still wore Hush Puppies—on the table. “And then they’re going to stay where it’s safe.”

“Thank you,” he said. Good thing someone here was thinking clearly.

Throughout his life, pain and Sam had never stayed strangers for any great length of time. He was always walking around dinged up, as Dot had called it, one way or another. Twisted ankles, sprained knees, black eyes, split lips, broken collarbones, and cracked ribs.

They all hurt to some degree.

Getting shot, however, fucking hurt.

It made it a little hard to concentrate.

And Alyssa had been right about the bleeding. It wasn’t stopping. He had to apply pressure, which he hadn’t been able to do with one hand holding the phone and the other drawing a layout of the house and the yard as Mary Lou described it to him.

“Thank you for taking care of them,” Sam told Alyssa.

She didn’t even glance at the bodies on the floor—her whole attention was on his little pencil drawing. “What’s the situation?”

“We’ve got two shooters, formerly three, up at the house. One’s been taken out, if you can believe that. Mary Lou’s boss is a gun collector, and his teenage daughter’s up there with Mary Lou and Rahman. They’re all hunkered down over here—” He tapped on the right side of the drawing. “—in the garage right now. Rahman went to open the window because the smoke’s thick, and he got shot for his trouble. Whitney—the daughter—actually returned fire. She’s some kind of marksman, and Mary Lou thinks that shooter is dead. And they did manage to get a little air. But just a little.

“Rahman’s alive,” Sam told her, “but he’s bleeding and immobile. Whitney’s daughter, Amanda, is also with them, and she and Haley are having trouble breathing. The heat’s getting intense.

“Mary Lou says the two other shooters faded back into the trees. She doesn’t know where they are, but they’re definitely still there because she stuck a rake up in front of the window and it was shot at.”

“Good thinking,” Alyssa said, looking up at him.

“Yeah,” Sam said.

“So what’s the plan?”

“We go up there,” he said, “and we do the same thing. Only this time we make them shoot at the rake in the window with you in position on the second floor, ready to snipe the snipers.”

“Okay,” she said. “And there’s a rifle and ammunition up there? Because the weapons we have here won’t get that job done.”

“As far as I can tell,” Sam said. “Yeah. We just have to get there. I’m thinking we’ll just drive like hell, right through the front door.”

Alyssa nodded again. “I’ll get the car. You call Mary Lou back and make sure Annie Oakley is told to hold her fire.”

“Lys.”

She turned back, her concern for him in her eyes.

“There’s a variable here that you need to know about. Mary Lou spoke to someone she called Bob, on this very telephone. He’s the man from the photo—Donny’s light-haired alien. She says he’s definitely here, but she hasn’t seen him.”

She started to look, maybe for the first time, into the faces of the men she’d killed just moments earlier, while she was saving Noah’s and Claire’s and his lives. Knowing Alyssa, that had to be hard. Sam knew she didn’t want to think of them as people with faces and names, so he stopped her.

“I already checked,” he told her. “No one here is even remotely blond.”

“So he’s out there, too, somewhere,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. It made her own risk in this so much greater.

Alyssa didn’t even blink. “I’ll get the car.” She handed him one of the room brooms. “Keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ready for this, bossman?” Jules sounded really excited about whatever he was going to report over the radio, and Max had a moment of deep regret.

As good as Peggy Ryan was—and she was a solid choice for his replacement—she didn’t have any kind of a relationship with Jules Cassidy. His sexual orientation was a problem for a lot of people, though—not just Peggy. And it wasn’t that she disliked him. He just made her uncomfortable. Because of that, she tried not to notice him, which meant he wouldn’t go far on her team.

And that was a real shame, because Jules had genuine talent.

Of course, if the frustration got too intense for him, he could always resign and join that civilian team of Tom Paoletti’s that everyone in the Spec Op dungeons was speculating wildly about.

Max had to laugh. He wondered if Paoletti even knew about it yet. Damn, the man was still facing treason charges.

“We’ve identified the man in the picture from the San Diego library—the one with Mary Lou Starrett—as Warren Canton,” Jules said. “He was born in Kansas, moved to Saudi Arabia when he was two years old. His father worked for an oil company, had a heart attack and died, and his mother remarried a Saudi national when he was five. He came back to America about once a year to visit grandparents, then came to attend college at Harvard but left after three semesters. In 1990, he completely dropped off the map.

“Except we have some really good people in intel who dug harder and found out that after Harvard, the golden boy took a Grand Tour with a lot of very interesting destinations. Afghanistan, Algeria, Libya, Azerbaijan, Iraq. It’s possible Warren forsook his Ivy League education in favor of Terrorist School.

“Then, hey ho. Meet Husaam Abdul-Fataah, who’s been on our most wanted list since he sprang to life full-grown in 1995. We have no photos and no real information on this guy, just a couple of stray fingerprints and this whispered name—oh, and his nickname, too: the Ghost. Everyone’s afraid of him—we are, they are. He’s got connections with most of the brand-name terrorist organizations, although his interest appears to be purely monetary. But he’s got a devoted following and an almost mystical reputation for being able to access targets on American soil and at military installations around the world. We thought it might be a supernatural thing—you know, the Ghost—but intel just tossed out a groovy new theory for us to chew on.

“They think that Husaam Abdul-Fataah is an aka for Warren Canton. Blond hair, blue eyes, boy-next-door smile, he can travel in the West and not get looked at twice.

“He’s believed to be behind a number of attacks in addition to Coronado. If we could get Canton to hold still long enough for us to take his fingerprints and prove he is Abdul-Fataah, we would gain huge strides in this war on terrorism. But dude’s pretty slippery. If he is Abdul-Fataah, this is the first photo anyone anywhere has of him—I’m telling you, this is major.

“We’ve got some analysts who are speculating that his MO is to walk away from an attack, in full view of anyone who might be looking for someone named Abdul-Fataah. Which really pisses me off, by the way. This is the flip side of racial profiling. This bastard is taking advantage of our fine, Western propensity for assumption. We hear a name like Abdul-Fataah, and we automatically think terrorist, we think Arab, we think Muslim extremist—forget about the fact that there are only a handful of extremists, as opposed to the millions and millions of law-abiding Muslims who would never harm another human being. And when we hear Abdul-Fataah, we certainly don’t think white American using an alias.” Jules stopped. Cleared his throat. “Forgive me, sir, I, um, just wanted to add a heads-up in case you get there before the rest of us, over.”

“Good work,” Max said. “Over.”

“I’m just relaying information, sir,” Jules said. “But I’ll definitely pass your praise along to both intel and analysis. Over.”

“Any word on those sat tower trucks?” Max asked. “I’m getting tired of saying over. Over.”

“I’ll work on it a little harder, sir. Out.”

Mary Lou couldn’t breathe.

Ihbraham was sitting inside the Explorer with Haley and Amanda. He’d gotten a bullet in his leg while opening one of the garage windows, but the air outside the house was almost as smoky as that inside.

When she saw him fall, pushed back by the force of the bullet, her heart had nearly stopped. But he was alive, thank God, although his leg was broken and bleeding badly.

It was driving him crazy to be packed off to the relative safety of the car, but someone had to stay with the children, and not being able to walk put him at a serious disadvantage.

Lord, this was all her fault. She should have called Alyssa Locke months ago. She should have turned herself in right from the start.

Her fears of being wrongfully convicted were nothing compared to her fears of Haley and Ihbraham and Amanda and even Whitney dying.

Save them, Lord. Mary Lou closed her eyes and prayed. She would give up anything. Her life. Her freedom. She would willingly spend the rest of her days in jail if that would insure their safety.

“Here comes the cavalry!” Whitney shouted. The bloodthirsty girl was lurking near the windows, hoping to get another shot at the men who wanted to kill them.

Lord, it was getting hard to hear over the sound of the fire. Who knew fires could be this loud?

She could hear the ripping sound of gunfire, though, and then an enormous crash as a car came right through the locked front door.

It was like something out of a movie. The car’s engine was smoking and the front end was crumpled, but there it was. In the Italian marble tiled foyer. Mrs. Downs would’ve shit pumpkins.

There was more of that automatic gunfire, and then Alyssa Locke came scrambling out of the driver’s seat.

Sam followed, looking like a savage, with something that looked like war paint streaking his naked torso and face.

And wearing a blood-soaked bandage held in place by a necktie just above the waistband of his pants?

Obviously, since she’d left, no one had been doing his laundry.

They were both carrying big, deadly-looking guns that looked like the one Mary Lou had found in the trunk of her car, all those fateful months ago.

They also both started to cough from the inescapable, throat-burning smoke.

Sam—some things never changed—started to curse.

“Are you all right?” Alyssa asked him.

He was bleeding from more than his side, Mary Lou realized. His forearm had what looked like a deep four-inch scrape, and blood was dripping down his hand.

He barely glanced at it. “I’m fine. Jesus, it’s hot as hell in here.” He spotted Mary Lou. “Hey! Are you okay? Is Haley safe?”

“Yes,” she said, bringing them both towels to drape over their heads. “It’s a little less smoky in the garage. She’s there. Down this way. She’s—”

“I don’t want to see her,” Sam said. “Not looking like this. I don’t want to scare her. Just keep your head down and make sure she’s safe and she’s got enough air, okay, Mary Lou?”

“Where’s this Whitney?” Alyssa asked. She had dirt on her face, too, but she still managed to look beautiful.

“Here.” Whitney stepped forward, completely unable to keep her eyes off Sam. Mary Lou knew what that was like.

Alyssa’s attention, however, was on that rifle. “I’m going to need that,” she said.

Whitney stopped staring at Sam’s abs and went into selfish mode. “It’s mine. I’ve got another upstairs you can use.”

“Okay,” Alyssa said. “Show me.” She looked at Sam. “Give me ninety seconds to get into place.”

“Be careful.” He touched her arm.

“You, too.” She glanced at Mary Lou.

Six months ago, seeing that exchange would have made Mary Lou crazy with jealousy. Now it just made her wistful. There was more love in that one little touch than there had been in her entire farce of a marriage to Sam Starrett.

She knew that for a fact, because that was the very same way Ihbraham touched her. She didn’t just know what it looked like—she knew what it felt like.

“I need that rake, fast,” Sam said, still watching Alyssa as Whitney led her up the stairs. It was even smokier up there. “And maybe an extra shirt to hang from it, if you’ve got one.”

He was practically choking, and it was clear that each cough jarred his injury and hurt him badly.

Mary Lou led him down the hall to the garage, where she grabbed the rake and her sweatshirt from the pile.

“Stay here,” Sam ordered her.

“Are we going to die?” she asked him. “Because if we’re going to die... oh, Sam, I owe you such an apology.”

“Only if we die?” he asked as he walked away.

Mary Lou followed him. “I got pregnant on purpose,” she said. “I thought I could make you love me. I didn’t understand that love’s not something you can force someone to feel.”

“I owe you an apology, too,” Sam told her. “But I’m going to do it later. After this is over. Now go take care of Haley.”

“If we don’t die, I’m getting remarried,” she told him. “His name’s Ihbraham Rahman.”

Sam actually stopped walking. “No shit?”

She shook her head. “He’s a gardener.”

“I know.” He was moving again.

“He’s a good man. He loves me and I love him.”

“I’m happy for you. I really am.” Sam looked at his watch. “But you need to go now and let me do this.”

Mary Lou went.

It was all too likely that they were going to die.

Alyssa hadn’t quite considered that possibility as she drove her rental car into a burning building.

But this fire was spreading fast, and the smoke made her lungs feel sunburned.

The shades up here hadn’t been pulled down, and she had to position herself far enough back from the windows so as not to become a potential target herself, which meant she could see only a portion of the yard and the brush. But she knew where she’d place herself if she were a shooter looking to pick off the people hiding inside of this inferno.

And sure enough, she saw the movement of the shot and aimed and squeezed and then dropped to the floor.

Because if someone else was watching the house, knowing the people inside were armed and prepared to fire back, he’d be looking to take her out, too.

“You got him,” Whitney reported from another room down the hall. “Shit, you’re good!”

But Alyssa was already running down the hall to the other side of the house, crouching low to try to escape the smoke. “Go tell Sam to give me another minute to get into place. We’re going to do this again.”

Max keyed his radio microphone. “Where the hell is this place? Over.”

Laronda answered. “Noah and Claire Gaines were just there, sir, and they said it was farther than they thought, from looking at the map. They said to watch for the smoke. Come back.”

“Whoa.” Max caught sight of it, way in the distance. “Tell the choppers they’ve got one hell of a signal flare, over.”

“They’ve spotted it, sir, over.”

“What’s their ETA, over?”

“They’re still a good five minutes north. Over.”

No one was shooting.

Sam even threw down the rake and put his body in front of the window, but no one took the bait.

It was possible that whoever had been out there was now gone.

But it was probable that the bad guys had realized that within the next five minutes, the smoke was going to push everyone inside the house out and onto the driveway, where there was absolutely no cover.

They could run for it, sure, but a shooter of even moderate skill could easily pick them off without any fear of being a target himself.

Unless, of course, Alyssa stayed up on that second floor.

Then only one of the good guys would get shot.

Of course only one of the good guys would get shot if only one of them went out there.

Alyssa was coming down the stairs, coughing and choking.

“Do you have it in you to give it one more try?” Sam asked.

“Absolutely,” she said. But what was she going to say, no?

“Change of plans, though. I’m going to take one of the cars in the garage,” he told her, “and I’m going to make it look like we’re all inside. We’ll pile blankets on the seats, and it’ll seem like everyone’s keeping their heads down. That’ll get this guy to start shooting—and maybe it’ll even bring the blond alien out of hiding, too.”

Alyssa didn’t look happy. “They’ll be shooting at you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the tricky part.”

Alyssa couldn’t believe it. “You’re using yourself as bait?”

“Someone’s got to.”

Sam was in serious pain, but he was pretending he wasn’t. She could practically feel it radiating from him.

“No,” she said. “Let’s just do it. Let’s actually get everyone in the car and—”

“And they’ll cut loose with whatever they’ve got,” Sam told her. “For all we know, they’ve got a grenade launcher out there.”

“If they did, wouldn’t they be taking shots at the house with it right now?”

“Yeah, unless they’ve got a limited supply of ammunition.”

He had an answer for everything.

“Just get into place,” Sam said again.

“You’re asking me to do the impossible,” she argued. “There are two shooters out there. I’ll get one. The other will get you.”

“We don’t know there’re two,” he countered.

She couldn’t believe this. “Yes, Sam, we do.”

“Okay,” he said. “So it’s going to be a little harder for you to do this, to shoot them both. Get Whitney to help. I’ll make myself a difficult target. Get into place.” He started for the garage, as if it were decided.

Alyssa followed him. “You’re willing to trust a sixteen-year-old girl with your life?”

“No, I’m trusting you with my life.”

“I don’t want you to die!”

“Good,” he said. “You’ve got motivation to succeed.”

She caught his arm. “Sam, I’m serious.”

He turned and kissed her, hard. “I am, too. Now go upstairs and save my ass.”

“What if I can’t do it?” she asked.

He kissed her again, sweetly this time. “What if you can?”

She looked at him, and even though his smile was laced with pain, it was still such a typical Sam Starrett smile. “You don’t ever give up hope, do you?”

He shook his head. “Not anymore. You know, I gave up too early on you and me, after that first night we spent together. I should have chased you back to Washington. I should have kept knocking on your door. I should’ve let myself hold on to that hope that you would change your mind. It’s the biggest regret of my entire life, because I did love you, even back then.” He kissed her again. “I love you twice as much now, and I need you to get into place. You got ninety seconds. Make it count.”

“No,” Alyssa said. “Wait. Listen. Here’s what I need you to do. When you pull out of the garage, head first for the row of hedges, and then the line of trees directly behind that. That’s where I think they’re hiding. If you can make them scramble, I can plug these motherfuckers.”

Sam smiled and kissed her again. “I can make them scramble.”

She nodded. “I’ll get into place. Give me an extra fifteen seconds. I want to go up to the third floor.”

She ran for the stairs. God, it was smoky up there, but maybe that was good. It would conceal her as she moved into position. “Whitney, where are you? I want you downstairs in the garage with Mary Lou. Be ready to get the hell out of here!”

Mary Lou gave Sam the keys to the Town Car. “Are you sure you don’t want to see Haley? She’s right in the Explorer—”

“Yes,” he said. “God damn it. I do want to see her. But I don’t want to scare her.”

His ex-wife used the towel she had draped over her head to wipe off his face. “Just cover your arm so she can’t see the blood.”

“I’m not going to open that car door,” Sam said. “If the air in there is cleaner than it is out here...”

But Mary Lou was already tapping on the glass, pulling him closer.

The light was on inside the car, and... Oh, Jesus. There she was.

Haley’s eyes looked back at him from a face that was half baby, half little girl. “My God,” Sam breathed. “She’s so big.” He glanced at Mary Lou. “Is she talking more now?”

“Not a whole lot, but some. She’s a thinker, not a talker.”

Ihbraham was in there, too, sitting in the backseat with Haley and another little girl, reading to them. Sam met his eyes, and the man nodded.

But Haley, she was down on the floor, looking for something.

Sam laughed as she pushed her Pooh Bear up against the window for him to see. “Oh, man,” he said. “I gave that to her. Do you think she remembers that?”

“Yeah. I’m sure she does.” Mary Lou had always been a lousy liar.

Inside the car, Haley was now starting to cry. Ihbraham tried to comfort her, but it was clear she wanted Mary Lou. Sam wasn’t foolish or stupid enough to try to convince himself he was the one she was crying over.

“Get in there with her,” Sam ordered his ex-wife. “Tell her everything’s going to be okay.” He headed for the Town Car. “And if...” He couldn’t say it.

“If this doesn’t work,” Mary Lou started.

“Oh, it’s going to work,” Sam said. Alyssa was going to make those shots. That he knew for a fact. But while hope was good to have, it was also important to keep a firm grip on reality. And the truth was... “I just might not walk away from it.” He was feeling the loss of blood, and that, combined with the smoke... “If I don’t,” he told Mary Lou, “make sure Haley grows up knowing that I loved her.”

Max heard them before he saw them.

Three Seahawk helicopters racing overhead and past him, toward that pillar of smoke.

He keyed his radio. “I have visual contact with the Seahawks. I want those fire trucks and ambulances ready to move in on my command!”

Alyssa lay on her stomach in the attic, practically melting from the heat, eyes watering from the smoke.

The window up here was an improvement over the second floor. She could see the entire yard, and it was possible, too, that she’d IDed the location of one of the shooters. She kept that dark lump in her sites, waiting...

Waiting...

Come on, Sam.

Stay alive.

She needed him to stay alive.

She was good enough to make these shots, and he was good enough to stay alive.

The hope he’d kissed into her filled her throat, her chest, her lungs, her heart, and she wanted—more than she’d ever wanted anything—for this to be over. For Sam to get out of that car, for her to run down the stairs and out of the house and...

Don’t let him die. Don’t let them get off a lucky shot that crashes through his skull and shuts off his incredible light and life. Don’t let him slump over that steering wheel and have her run down those stairs to find that her life was cold and colorless without his spark. Don’t make her have to learn how to live without him all over again.

Stop that. Don’t think about that. Think about the way he was going to smile and high-five her as Mary Lou and Haley and the others were taken to a hospital, to safety. Think about sitting with him in the emergency room, too. About the doctor smiling as he came out of surgery, to tell her that the bullet that went into Sam didn’t do very much damage at all. Think about him telling her that Sam could go home in just a few days. Think about her taking him home.

Yeah.

Alyssa Locke lay on the attic floor of a burning house and, with the part of her brain that wasn’t watching the yard, she thought about what she was going to wear to her wedding.

Sam got into the car. Checked his watch.

He started the engine, gesturing for Mary Lou to move back.

He put the car into reverse, taking another glance back at the construction of that garage door he was about to blast through, and then...

Show time.

Mary Lou held tightly to Amanda and Haley as Sam plowed Frank Turlington’s favorite Town Car through the garage door.

She could feel Ihbraham’s hand on her head. Steady. Comforting.

One way or another, this was all going to be over soon.

Sam kept his head down as the windshield shattered, as he threw the car into drive and stomped on the gas.

He spun the wheel hard and headed straight toward the shrubs.

He saw the shooter diving out of the way, heard the shot, saw him fall, boneless.

Way to go, Alyssa!

He saw the second man, too, standing up and taking aim, right before he hit the tree, right before his world went black.

Sam wasn’t moving.

The car was stopped, its entire right front mangled.

Come on, Sam. Get out of the car. Make sure those shooters are down.

Alyssa couldn’t see the second man she’d hit—the one who’d been farther back in the woods. She aimed and put another bullet into the first one, just for safety’s sake.

But still Sam didn’t move.

Please don’t let him be dead. Please God, please God...

And then—as if in answer to her prayers—God appeared.

In the form of three Seahawks, coming from up above. One of them landed directly in the center of the circular driveway.

It was deus ex machina.

Two minutes too late.

Alyssa started toward the attic stairs, and the entire back roof of the house caved in.

As Mary Lou watched, the helicopters landed, and what looked like FBI agents as well as soldiers swarmed out and toward the house.

Whitney was out of the car. “Hey, over here!”

And then a man in a windbreaker with “FBI” in big white letters on the back was getting into the car. He drove them out of the garage, out through the hole Sam had made in the doors, and right over to the nearest helicopter.

They were in time. They were just in time, because as soon as they pulled outside, the house groaned and shook, and sparks and flames flew way up into the sky.

About seven men and women, all wearing those FBI jackets or T-shirts, helped them out of the car and up into the helicopter.

Other people were there, giving oxygen to the babies first, then to the rest of them, gently lowering Ihbraham to the floor and giving him first aid.

Someone closed the doors.

They were up. In the air. Flying faster than Mary Lou had dreamed it was possible for a helicopter to fly.

They were safe. They were safe.

But... “Sam’s still down there,” she shouted over the noise of the blades to the nearest FBI jacket. “And Alyssa Locke is still inside that house!”

Sam used Alyssa’s Swiss army knife to deflate the airbag that had punched him directly in his bullet wound.

Holy Jesus God. That had hurt so much he’d actually passed out.

And now look. He’d opened his eyes to a pair of Seahawks on the lawn and a third one heading back to wherever they’d come from.

It was, no doubt, an early birthday present from Max Bhagat.

Sam pulled himself out of the car.

The yard was filled with agents and—hoo-yah!—what looked like special forces soldiers. Way to go, Max.

Several cars and vans had pulled up, too, and it was only Jules Cassidy’s timely arrival that kept Sam from being tackled or, shit, even shot, since he was dressed more like a tango than one of the good guys.

“Where’s Alyssa?” Sam shouted to Jules.

“We took everyone out of the house on that chopper that just left—express for a safe hospital,” he shouted back.

“No,” Sam said. “There’s no way she would have gotten on that thing without me.”

Jules looked at the burning house, no doubt thinking the same thing Sam was thinking.

Alyssa was still inside.

Sam ran for the house with Jules on his heels.

Max pulled over to the side of the driveway so that the emergency vehicles and fire trucks would be able to get through.

“I want a body count,” he shouted as he got out of his car. “Are all the shooters accounted for? Let’s find ’em and bag ’em and get IDs started. I want to know who these bastards were—yesterday! And someone get me Alyssa Locke!”

Okay, so the stairs were gone.

She was going to have to jump down from the third to the second floor, which was kind of scary since she didn’t know whether or not she would go right through those floorboards when she landed.

The heat and smoke were so intense, Alyssa’s lungs felt as if they were going to burst.

Okay, God. Favor time. Keep Sam alive and keep those floorboards intact. Oh, and it would be nice to have the stairs from the second to the ground floor still intact too.

And a cool glass of lemonade waiting for her outside this hellmouth.

A lottery win for her sister’s family. Peace on earth, goodwill toward men. A sunny day for her wedding...

Nah. That was not at all necessary. It didn’t matter if it rained or shined as long as Sam was smiling at her.

Alyssa jumped.

“Jesus,” Jules shouted, coughing up what sounded like an entire lung. “Stay low.”

“She was upstairs,” Sam shouted back. “Third floor.”

A beam fell, showering them with embers.

“We’re not going to make it without masks and oxygen!”

No kidding. There was no point in both of them dying. “Go get some,” Sam yelled, grabbing the little bastard and throwing him back out of the house.

He ran for the stairs—if you could really call the half-assed staggering he was barely capable of doing running—but then fell on his face as a piece of falling ceiling hit him hard on the back of his head.

Alyssa found him on the stairs.

Sam.

Rushing to rescue her.

The blood from his bullet wound had completely soaked through Noah’s T-shirt. He had plaster in his hair and on his back, and as she rushed toward him, he was already pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, ready to keep climbing, ready to walk into hell, if need be, to find her.

She helped him up, slipping his arm around her shoulders, pulling him down the stairs, no longer trying to stay low to avoid the smoke, trying instead for speed. But, God, there was so much of him. She was lucky he was helping. Carrying him on her own would have been a real challenge. “You are such a jerk. Running into a burning building with a gunshot wound?”

“Are you all right?” he gasped.

And then, alleluia! They were out in the air.