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tree. Though not the most common caliber, .338 Lapua rifles were well known in the community of professional shooters. Trying to trace this one would send the authorities down a dozen different rabbit trails. The serial numbers had been removed and the woman had taken great care to see there was nothing that could be used to obtain her fingerprints or DNA. They would think the rifle was a grand evidence coup and waste time comparing ballistics to hundreds of other shootings in FBI and Interpol databases. In truth, the rifle’s maiden voyage had been this one. While the authorities racked their brains for a connection to other crimes, the woman who pulled the trigger would melt back into the black mist from which she had emerged.
    Dropping lithely from the branches of the juniper, she brushed off her hands and took one last look at her surroundings to be sure she hadn’t left anything unintentional behind. A group of German couples touring the Academy met her on the paved trail when she stepped out of the brush. It couldn’t be helped. None of them were under sixty. If they were questioned, they would describe her as a cute little Asian girl, out for a walk in the woods.
    Two minutes later saw her at the North Gate. She threw a wide smile at the security police officer, who waved her on as he tried to decipher all the traffic on his radio.
    She crossed the bridge over Interstate 25, then turned north, toward the Denver airport. There was a certain liquid nature to things such as this. She would have to hurry if she wanted to stay ahead of the torrent without getting washed away.
     
     
    Three uniformed paramedics hustled down the steps with a folded stretcher. Heavy boots echoed off the concrete tunnel, but they looked like angels backlit by the bright sunlight at the mouth of the stairs.
    Only then did Ronnie and Quinn step back.
    Quinn held Mattie’s hand while Ronnie knelt beside the sobbing child. Camille swooped in and took the little girl in strong arms.
    “I’ve got this one,” she whispered to Jericho. “Don’t you worry about her.”
    The lead paramedic, grim-faced and quiet, used a plastic injection gun to insert a thick needle into the bone below the knee on Kim’s good leg. Once he had the needle set, he started IO fluids while the others strapped Kim to the expanded stretcher. None of them smiled.
    Quinn trotted up the steps beside the rescue personnel, holding Kim’s hand. Her skin was cold now, her fingers slack. A red stain soaked the sheet at the site of her wound, but her chest still rose and fell. Quinn focused on that.
    Thibodaux, Garcia, and the Bruns surrounded them in a mobile perimeter, eyes scanning the surrounding buildings and rolling hills.
    Panting with emotion, Quinn held up his hand, knifelike, and pointed across Academy Drive while the paramedics got Kim situated in the waiting ambulance.
    His voice was frayed with despair. He needed something to do, anything besides thinking about Kim’s chances. He’d seen too many wounds like this.
    “Jacques,” he said. “Let the SPs know the shot came from over there. I’d say less than fifteen hundred meters from the sound of the report. I want to know when they find anything.”
    “You got it, l’ami,” the big Cajun said.
    Garcia touched his shoulder, letting her fingers slide off slowly. “You go take care of her. We’ll check it out over there.”
    “We’re ready to go, sir.” A burley paramedic with slicked black hair waved Quinn inside. “It’s a good idea if you ride along.”
    Quinn looked out the window of the ambulance as they pulled away, watching the thick line of cedar trees on the hills across Academy Drive. He ground his teeth. The trauma of working on Kim had knocked his tactics for a loop.
    He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and pushed Thibodaux’s number.
    The big Cajun picked up immediately. “Talk to me, beb.”
    “It’s only been minutes, Jacques,” Quinn said. “There’s a good chance the