in the little cooler for his morning coffee, along with some bacon, a couple of eggs he’d cook up after he caught a few waves.
He figured he’d stop by and see Mic before he headed home.
The little bungalow outside of town was his place. The ranch was home.
But part-time rancher or not, he’d been a cop a long time. Any cop with a brain knew when he was being tailed. Especially when the tail wasn’t any damn good at it.
He watched the headlights in his rearview, how they kept the same distance whether he eased off the gas or punched it a little.
He figured he’d made a few enemies along the way, but none he could look back on who’d care enough to want to cause him serious harm.
Maybe somebody took a shine to his truck. Force him to the shoulder, rob him, leave him stranded—maybe kick his ass for good measure. Or worse.
Not the sort of thing that happened along this stretch as a rule, he thought as he took his nine-millimeter Glock out of the glove compartment, checked the load, laid it within easy reach.
If they tried anything, they’d be in for a hell of a surprise.
He considered calling it in, then considered he might be having a paranoid old man moment.
Then the headlights leaped forward, and he knew his cop instinct hit bull’s-eye.
He punched it. He’d driven this road all his damn life, knew every curve and bend.
But he hadn’t expected to see a man—black, red do-rag, indeterminate age—rear out of the passenger window with a goddamn semiauto.
The first volley shattered his rear window, peppered his tailgate.
Definitely not a carjacking. They wanted him dead.
He gripped and whipped the wheel, drove the accelerator to the floor. The car—a freaking Jag he saw now as it skidded on the turn—fishtailed, fought for control, found it.
Creek coming up. He envisioned it, the way the road would veer toward the canyon, ride the bridge, veer back toward the sea.
He gained a little distance there, just a little. But the Jag kept coming, and so did the bullets.
He had to ease off the gas to navigate one of the blind turns, then headlights streaming toward him blinded him for an instant. He watched the oncoming sedan swerve, bump the shoulder as he roared past.
And hoped they had the sense God gave a moron and called it in, as he was a little too occupied to do so himself.
The Jag had the speed, it had the muscle, but its driver didn’t have the skill. The wasp-sting bite along his right shoulder told Red he needed to put that to the test.
He had the drop to the sea on his right, the cliff wall on his left, and a hairpin coming up only a desperate man would take at seventy miles an hour.
He took it at seventy-five, fighting to control the truck that tried to two-wheel it on him while his shoulder burned and bullets blew through the shattered window.
Behind him, the Jag lost its grip, overcompensated. And flew, just fucking flew over the guardrail.
His tires screamed and smoked when Red hit the brakes. He smelled burning rubber and blood—his own—as he battled the truck to a spinning stop. Behind him the smash and grind of glass and metal screamed. His hands trembled—he could admit that—as he loosened his death grip on the wheel, pulled over.
As he raced down the skinny shoulder, the explosion rocked the air. Fire seared it. He looked down at the twists of metal, the roar of flames, and calculated the chances of a survivor next to zero.
As cars began pulling over, he slid the gun in his hands to the back of his waistband.
“Keep clear,” he shouted. “I’m a cop.”
Or close enough, he thought.
He pulled out his phone.
“Mic, it’s Red. I’ve got a serious problem out here on Highway 1.”
And bending over, bracing his hands on his thighs as he pulled his breath back, he gave her the gist.
Along with cops, the fire department, paramedics, she came herself. Crime scene, accident detail, all of that went on around him. First responders, rappelling or climbing down the cliff to the wreckage, lights blasting and spinning.
She stood beside him while one of the medics treated his shoulder.
She had a husband now, and two kids—good kids—wore her hair in rows of braids that ended on a long tail of them.
And had put on the uniform before coming out. Because she was Mic, he thought, and would always choose structure.
He glanced down at