He was trying to be quiet and not doing a bad job, but the old floor creaked with his footsteps, one after the other pretty slow as he eased his way in. I saw his fist first, wrapped around a short-barreled revolver, then his arm and then the rest as he went through toward the main part of the station house. From behind it could have been Jason, or maybe it was one of the others. Too dark to be sure, and anyway the brothers were all built more or less the same, this one maybe a bit on the larger side.

I waited two more seconds in case another brother came in behind him. I didn’t want to get caught in the middle. When I was sure I was only dealing with one, I stepped out and leveled the shotgun at him. Just shoot, I told myself. Pull the trigger.

No, do it proper.

“Drop the gun.” I said it pretty quiet, but I tried to sound mean.

His shoulders hunched and he froze. “Damn it.”

“Put the gun down. I mean it.”

He dropped it.

I thought how cool and threatening it might sound to pump a new shell into the chamber, but that would only eject a good one. “Now I want you to turn around nice and slow, and—”

He spun fast, grabbed the shotgun barrel and pushed it out of the way. If I’d fired the blast would have gone past him, but I didn’t even think of pulling the trigger. I was too surprised. The shotgun flew away. I stepped back, mouth falling open, probably to say something clever like hey, stop that, no fair. But I never got any words out.

He stepped in, fist coming up hard to pop me one in the mouth, mashing my lips against my teeth. A little bell went off inside my skull. I tasted blood, took another hit on the jaw, tumbling back along the lockers before I figured it was time to give a little back.

I put my head down and pushed forward, gut punching him. My fists didn’t seem to bother him, and he brought a knee up into my groin.

Little multi-colored firework explosions went off in front of my eyes, and all the air went out of me. I shuffled backwards as fast as I could, trying to put a few feet between us and catch my breath. Except I couldn’t catch any breath. When I tried, my throat made a deep hoarse sound.

He wasn’t about to let up, came at me fast. I reached out for anything to hit him with, and my hand landed on the handle of the coffee pot. I splashed it straight at him, and the hot coffee caught him full in the face.

He screamed, hand going up to claw at his scorched eyeballs. I broke the coffee pot over his head, and he staggered and cursed. I hit the side of his face with my fist, mustered everything I had and hit him again. He went down and didn’t get up.

I slumped against the wall, gulping for air. The ache spreading out from my groin almost made me puke. I thought also I might have wanted to cry a little bit, but I didn’t. I gave myself thirty seconds to rest, then I pushed myself up and hit the light switch.

It wasn’t Jason on the floor but Matthew. A little bigger and slower and dumber than Jason, younger than all the rest except for Luke. I took a spare pair of cuffs from my locker, slapped one bracelet on Matthew’s wrist and the other to one of the locker handles. I picked up the shotgun and limped back to the front part of the station house, just in time to hear all hell breaking loose on the front door.

They must have been using something as a battering ram, because each slam almost banged the door off its hinges. On the fourth bang the door popped open and bodies filled the doorway, wide-shouldered silhouettes all holding rifles.

I lifted the shotgun and fired.

The whole station house filled with the thunder. The hellcat screamed, and the lead man in the doorway convulsed and pitched forward. Some guy I’d never seen before, another Jordan toady, I guessed. I pumped in another shell and fired, but the others had already retreated.

A hand came around the corner and filled the stationhouse with random pistol fire. I ran forward and threw myself behind the desk. Bullets pinged around the room. Pencils and paper on the desktop danced and flew in all directions. I raised up, eyes and shotgun just above the edge of the desk, ready to blast anyone who came through. I didn’t plan on arresting anyone. Shoot to kill.

There was a lull in the gunplay, and I heard quick footsteps and muffled voices.

A bright, flickering orange blur flew threw the doorway in a low arc, landed with the sound of broken glass. The gasoline spread and a wall of flame sprang up as if by magic, washing the stationhouse in hellish dancing light, The wave of heat hit me, and I hoped there wasn’t another Molotov cocktail following the first or things would get impossible pretty damn quick.

I leaned the shotgun against the desk and grabbed the key ring, ran to the hellcat’s cell and unlocked it, swung open the door.

“Quickly, out the back!” She made to run past me.

I grabbed her wrist and hauled her back, drew the revolver with my other hand but didn’t point it at her.

“Are you insane,” She said. “The fire will spread.”

“Get that fire extinguisher off the wall over there.” I pointed with the revolver. “I’ll cover you.”

“If we run, we can make it.”

I put the gun in her face. “Get the Goddamn fire extinguisher!”

Her eyes stabbed hatred at me, but she bit off whatever curse she’d been about to offer and ran to pull down the extinguisher. There was a pin she had to pull and a handle to squeeze. She started messing with it, and for as second I thought I’d have to put down the revolver to show her how. But she got it right and pointed it at the flames and squeezed the handle, a blizzard of white whooshing out, shrinking the fire a bit at a time.

And I guess that’s what they’d been waiting for because then suddenly Clay Jordan filled the doorway with a deer rifle in has hands and brought it up to his shoulder for a shot.

I squeezed the revolver’s trigger three times. The first two shots chewed up chunks of door frame, splinters of wood flying around Clay’s head. On the third shot, Clay dropped the deer rifle and grabbed the fleshy part of his upper thigh. He threw his head back and yelled. I saw hands yank him back from the doorway.

The hellcat had half the fire out and seemed to have the jump on the rest. Maybe if—

Blinding pain erupted at the base of my skull. I staggered forward, but somehow kept my feet, turned around, trying to bring the revolver to bear, but it felt like it weighed a ton. I saw a long, flat piece of metal swing down and smack my hand open. The revolver flew away.

I saw now that it was Matthew Jordan hulking over me. In the firelight I could see one ear bloody from the bash I’d given him with the coffee pot. He was still handcuffed to the locker door which he’d ripped off the hinges and was using as a club. He cranked it back for a swing at my head.

And got a face full of extinguisher foam. The hellcat was there, thrusting the extinguisher nozzle at Matthew and running out the rest of the foam.

He coughed, pawed at his eyes. “Fucking bitch.”

“I owe you this, Matthew.” I kicked him in the balls. Hard.

He let out this little squeak and went to his knees. One hand still wiped at his eyes. The other went to his groin. His face went so red I thought he might rupture.

I picked up my revolver and slapped him in the side of the head with it. He flopped over like a dead fish. I lifted the gun to bash him again but stopped myself. I wanted to, but no.

I motioned to the hellcat. “Help me lift him. We can drag him into the cell and—”

She slammed the empty fire extinguisher into my gut. I bent double sucking for air and went down, looked up just in time to see her vanishing through the back room.

I lurched to my feet, took three steps after her and stopped. Forget it. The one that got away. She was a criminal, probably a killer. The hellcat had trafficked in human lives across the border. The star on my shirt meant I was supposed to go get her, lock her up. But she’d helped me in the instant I’d needed it, right when Matthew Jordan was about to smash my head in. That probably didn’t go very far to balance out whatever wrongs she’d done, but it would have to do for now.