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TWO

WARREN JACOBI PATTED his vest’s breast pocket and pulled out a tangle of zip ties, accidentally snagging the rest of the pocket’s contents at the same time. Never mind . He shut off his phone’s flash and took a few shots of the killer climbing the path. Then Jacobi paused to review the photos he’d just taken.

As he’d expected, the light from the faint sunrise behind him had been just bright enough to define plumage on a big freaking bird, but not so bright as to positively ID the killer. Jacobi slipped the phone into his vest’s side pocket—and that’s when he felt the crushing grip of a hand between his neck and right shoulder. A voice in his ear said, “You think I haven’t seen you tailing me? Don’t turn around.”

He almost recognized that voice. Who?

“Okay, okay. You got me.” Jacobi didn’t dare resist capture with his back turned. He was tensing his muscles, reaching his right hand around toward the gun in his waistband. But before he touched the grip, he felt a searing pain in his lower right side.

Again and again while he was on his knees, then again and again, dropping him face down on the ground.

Jacobi turned his head to see his attacker, then cried out, “ No! ”

He closed his eyes as what felt like a saw ripped through the right side of his neck. His scream was cut short. As he wheezed out his last breath, Warren Jacobi was no longer in the present.

A soft breeze blew across his face, illuminated images strung together in a bright, lightning-like flash. Jacobi saw himself gathering his family into his arms. Putting a hand on his beloved Muriel’s cheek and kissing her. Entering a crime scene in a deep black night with Lindsay Boxer, his ride-or-die former partner. A brilliant sunset lighting up the bay, followed by drinks after work with old friends, his comrades in arms.

He didn’t want to die, not like this. He’d called the chief and told him who had cut him down—hadn’t he?

But then it didn’t matter.

He was gone.