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backward, groaning. “And just think how many lives you’re saving.”
    â€œSaving?”
    â€œYou’re their protector, right? The guy with the gun.The man with the plan. And here you are, bruised and broken. In the dirt. Who’s gonna say they can do better? Who’s gonna try to fill your shoes?”
    At first Tom had thought Declan’s cockiness stemmed from stupidity, as most cockiness did.Tom had found that arrogance belied poor self-esteem, and people with poor self-esteem often rashly defended against any perceived risk of getting knocked down a peg, because they were already so low. Rash behavior meant stupid behavior.
    But he didn’t think Declan was stupid. Far from it. On Tom’s mental Cartesian graph of personality types, the intersection of high intelligence and grossly immoral behavior—oh, say, murder and kidnapping—was marked with a single word: evil . And evil people were a lot harder to outfox, outmaneuver, and outguess than people who were simply ignorant. He was going to have to do a lot better than simply lunging for a gun, which he admitted was both stupid and rash.
    â€œWhat are you going to do with these people?” he asked.
    Declan smiled. “Have a little fun.”
    â€œLike you did with Roland?”
    Declan looked perplexed, then he got it. “The car?” He thought about it. “Yeah, something like that.” He scanned the street in one direction, then the other. “I feel like I’m waiting for the doorbell to ring on Halloween. Where is everybody?”
    Bad and Kyrill were cutting across the grass in front of the community center, which was set farther back from the street than the stores and businesses on each side of it. Both held handguns.
    â€œWhat’s your goal here?”Tom asked. “What are you trying to—”
    Declan raised a hand to stop him. “Shh, shh, shh.”
    Tom followed his gaze. A group of eight or nine kids and parents had come onto Provincial and were slowly approaching, murmuring among themselves. He had yelled for Sylvia Blackstock and her daughters to run because they were close to the corner and he’d thought they could make it and hide. He had not factored in their confusion, which slowed their reaction time. Of course, with their constable lying bloody in the road, near a crushed and smoldering car, any townie who stumbled onto the scene would spend precious seconds puzzling over the sight, if they didn’t outright do what Adrian and his friends had done and run straight for Tom. If they eventually determined the situation warranted a quick retreat, Tom had no doubt any one of these visiting fiends would shoot them in the back.
    As if his thoughts had given it permission to exist, he heard a sound that sent a cold spark streaking down his spine: it was the metalsliding- on-metal and click-chink of a bolt-action rifle receiving a bullet into its firing chamber. “Locked and loaded” was the military expression. He looked and saw Bad and Kyrill at the open back door of the Hummer. The teenager had the rifle, a long, tightly constructed weapon. He’d seen something similar only twice before.The first time was at RCMP’s Special Emergency Response Team training, before the unit had become Joint Task Force Two. It was the firearm of choice for the snipers there. Took a six-inch-long .50-caliber Browning machine gun load.Tom had seen his second BMG rifle when an affluent hunter brought one to town, keen on bringing down a caribou from a thousand yards. Evan MacElroy had guided him backcountry. Later Evan said the man had shot from one basin ridge to another, about twelve hundred yards, and dropped a big bull with one round.
    â€œThe thing just toppled over,” he’d said. “When we got over there, I coulda stuck my arm in the hole that bullet made.”
    Kyrill yanked the stock to its full extension, seated it into his shoulder, and peered