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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!

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.
    Someone had fired from the roof of a tractor trailer — as he ran down the length of it. I shot back and couldn’t tell if I’d hit the sniper or not. Everything was happening like fireworks — there and gone — then quiet again.
    “What the fuck?” somebody shouted on radio. He didn’t explain.
Couldn’t?
    “Alex! Bree!” It was Sampson again. “By the pumps! To your left!”
    I ran out to where I could see the main buildings. Three of the gunmen had a good fifty yards on us and were running toward the gas canopy, firing as they went. They had black balaclavas pulled over their heads.
    Two were short —
boys,
if the height was any indication. A larger person — huge — was in the first position. Was that the gang leader? Ellie’s killer. It had to be him, didn’t it? I wanted to get the bastard, no matter what else happened tonight.
    Innocent people ran screaming away from their cars and semis. There was too much confusion for us to fire.
    A woman in a red parka and baseball cap went down, clutching her stomach. The large man shot her a second time!
Was he crazy?
    Then he plucked the gas nozzle out of her SUV. He definitely
was
mad. He locked it in the on position, then left the gas running on the ground.
    Then he stepped over to the next car in line and did the same thing.
    His team of boys was getting clear of the area, running and shouting as if this were some kind of out-of-control sports match. His pistol was pointed at the pooling gas, and that was all the warning I needed.
    “Hold fire! Hold fire!” I yelled, then pulled up short of the pumps. “Bree, take Brighton. Go around the other side. Nicolo, get somebody to shut those things off.”
    The large man held a third nozzle in his hand now, just letting the gasoline flow onto the pavement. I could smell the vapors, even at this distance.
    What the hell was he thinking?
    “Just put it down. Walk away!” I shouted. “We won’t fire on you.”
    He didn’t move, just stared back at me. No fear in him. A second later, someone shouted behind him. Then came three short blasts of a car horn.
    Finally he did what I’d asked. He kept his gun pointed my way, but set the gas nozzle down. He backed away slowly, moving out of the light of the canopy.
    We were clear —
he was leaving!
    Then several shots were fired out of the darkness. It was him — the bastard!
    A wall of flame burst from the concrete. It almost seemed like a magic trick. In seconds, the forecourt was burning, flames licking under and around the empty cars.
    A white Corolla went up first. It exploded right where the large male had been standing a few seconds ago. Then a black pickup on the other side of the pumps caught fire.
    “Clear! Clear! Clear! Clear!” I was shouting and waving both arms over my head, trying to get everybody, civilians and police, away from