From what he could see, it looked like a short, fixed-blade tactical knife. Rubberized handle, olive and black. Briggs had thrust the blade in at an upward angle, beneath her lower ribs. Then he’d twisted, winding the now-sopping fabric of Gwen’s shirt a half turn around the hilt.

“It hurts.” Gwen was panting now. “It hurts.”

“I know,” Worth said. “Don’t look at it, okay? Look at me.”

Almost everyone in the bar was looking at him by now. Everybody but Gwen. Worth could tell by her pupils and her breathing that shock had set in.

In the distance, he heard Tony Briggs, shouting: “What’s that guy doing?” Then: “He’s got a knife!”

Within moments, the whole place became a minor swarm. Through the moving bodies, Worth finally caught his last glimpse of Briggs, turning and stepping out the door.

Then he saw the beefy guy in the Seminoles T-shirt rushing toward him. The guy yelled something, grabbed Worth by the neck, and pulled him away from Gwen.

As she fell, Worth pivoted his weight and chopped the guy in the neck as hard as he could. Brachial stun, square on target. The guy shivered and folded up on himself.

Worth climbed over him, back toward Gwen. He felt weight piling up on his back, driving him down.

Through the tangle of feet and legs around him, he saw Gwen slump to the floor. He saw hands on her shoulders. He saw other hands on the handle of the knife.

“Don’t pull it out!” He screamed the words with all the air in his lungs.

But they were lost in the clamor. He bucked and thrashed, sunk a fist in a groin. He bit an arm, drove his heel into a knee.

He shouted, “Medical! Now!”

It was some young guy in flannel who pulled the knife out. Just trying to help. While Worth struggled, helpess, Gwen spasmed and arched her back.

The serrated blade dragged a smooth gray loop of intestine through the gash in her belly. Her sodden shirt began to glisten with new blood.

“Back off! I’m a cop!” Facedown, arms and legs pinned, Worth shouted until he was hoarse. “I’m the police!”

The guy in flannel made a yelping sound and stepped back. The knife clattered to the floor, bounced once, and landed a foot from Worth’s eyes. He saw five capital letters printed on the olive-drab handle in black marker: EDDIE. A random foot swept the knife out of view.

Gwen sat against the booth, hands limp on the floor beside her, looking down at her stomach with a fascinated expression.

“Gwen, look at me!”

Somebody kicked him in the face. More weight piled on, pressing him harder into the grimy floor.

Worth screamed into his shirt. “Get over here! Jesus Christ!”

Later, he’d consider the irony that all the flailing and the dog piling had disconnected the audio line for real.

First came the sole of a construction boot, filling up his view.

Tony Briggs gunned the Ranger out of the parking lot, cornering onto Saddle Creek, black duffel bag full of Uncle Eddie’s cash on the passenger seat beside him.

He’d avoid major traffic zones as far as he could. West to 50th, then south through the residential streets. He’d hop Grover to 42nd, then hit the interstate.

By the time anybody managed to sort through the pandemonium he’d left behind in the bar, he’d be long gone. He could ditch the truck at a rest stop or filling station. Boost another car, keep on going. With a quarter million in cash, plus the bogus IDs, he’d be able to lay low indefinitely.

Tony hadn’t traveled half a block before a set of flashers turned on behind him.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

In the rearview mirror, he saw the black-and-white coming up on his tail, lights swirling. He couldn’t believe the pure dumb luck. The unit must have been hanging out in the vacant car wash next to the bar, waiting for last call.

What, no violent criminals? These Northwestern jerk-offs didn’t have anything better to do?

He dug the .32 out of his coat pocket and considered how to play the situation. He didn’t want to waste a fellow cop on purpose, but he wasn’t stopping here. Somebody in the bar had called 911 by now; in another few minutes, the Homey would be crawling with radio cars and EMTs.

Tony checked the mirror again.

Make that two sets of flashers behind him. The squad units drifted apart while he watched, straddling the center line between them. They took up both lanes, flanking him. One of the units hit the spotlight; the beam hit the rearview mirror, half blinding him.

Unbelievable.

Up ahead, Saddle Creek fed into a roundabout. Tony entered and followed the circle around. One of the squad units followed him in, hitting the siren once. Bweep.

The other unit swung around, cutting off the return lane.

Could there be some kind of alert out on Grocery Boy’s truck?

No. Too quick. Unless…

A third cruiser rolled into play from the south, blocking the last turnout onto 50th Street.

Tony scrambled, trying to assess. He pulled the wheel left, hugging the turn. As he came around nearly full circle, he saw something curious.

A white van with no markings barreled out from behind the laundromat down the street. The van roared across 47th, across the parking lot of the car wash, across 48th, and into the parking lot of the Homey Inn.

As the van skidded to a halt, Tony pictured Matthew Worth, back in the bar, sitting on the other side of the table. Looking smug. Pieces clicked together in his mind, trying to fit.

The unit following him tapped the siren again. Bweewheep.

Tony checked the rearview again. He looked over his shoulder. Bottom line: It didn’t matter why he suddenly found himself inside a barricade.

Gangway, douchebags.

He punched the gas.

At least Grocery Boy’s pickup had some guts. Tony took the last curve of the roundabout hard, tires whining, gathering speed. He aimed the nose of the Ranger at the rear quarter panel of the cruiser up ahead.

The spotlight hit him in the eyes as he closed the distance. Tony hit the cruiser right where black paint met white.

The force of the impact rocked the truck, swinging the tail end around. The Ranger broadsided the cruiser with a long screech of steel on steel.

Tony jammed the gas pedal to the floor. He banged up over the curb, head hitting the roof of the cab. But he made it through, straightened the truck, and roared back down Saddle Creek in the direction he’d come.

He blew past the Homey, where people were already spilling out into the lot. The back doors of the white van stood open: He saw guys in black coats fighting their way into the building, initials OPD and DEA in reflective white letters on their backs.

The units following him out of the roundabout had gone to full sirens now. No more warnings.

Tony sped on, planning alternate routes in his head. Saddle Creek widened and turned south at the bottom of the hill; it was a major artery, meandering on a diagonal all the way through midtown.

His new best friends would be all over the radios. Once somebody assessed the basic situation at the bar—about two minutes from now, Tony speculated—they’d try to set up snares at the nearest interstate on-ramps.

He swerved to avoid oncoming traffic, shooting through the stop sign at the three-way intersection where Saddle Creek crossed Hamilton. Tires screeched, horns blared. Sirens howled.

Three cruisers behind him now. He saw a fourth speeding down the north branch up ahead; he didn’t know if the unit was responding to a radio call for the Homey or angling to intercept him.

It didn’t matter. Tony grimaced and bore down. He reached the junction on a collision course with the cruiser and faded to the right, plowing into the front end of the oncoming unit just head of the front wheels.