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O’Hara saw Matt Payne long before Matt Payne saw him-or, perhaps more accurately, acknowledged O’Hara’s presence.

Matt was standing at the far end of the lot, pistol drawn, looking down at what after another second or two O’Hara saw was a man writhing on the ground.

“Matt! Matty! You all right?”

O’Hara decided that the crescendo of sirens was so loud Matt couldn’t hear him.

But finally, just when O’Hara was close enough to be able to hear the anguished moans of the man on the ground, Matt turned and looked at him.

O’Hara instantly-and certainly not intentionally-turned from concerned friend to journalist.

Jesus, that’s a good picture! A good-looking young cop in a tuxedo, tie pulled down, gun in hand, looking down at the bad guy! Justice fucking triumphant!

He put the digital camera to his eye and made the shot. And three others, to make sure he got it.

“What took you so long, Mickey?” Matt asked.

“What the hell happened, Matt?”

“These two guys…” He raised the pistol and indicated the second body. Then he waited patiently while Mickey took images of the dead man before going on:

“These two guys mugged a nice middle-class black couple out for dinner. The guy gave him his wallet, and one of these bastards knocked his teeth out with a gun anyway. I walked up on it, tried to grab them, and they let fly with a sawed-off shotgun and what looks like a. 380 Browning-”

“Jesus, Payne,” Lieutenant McGuire asked. “What went down here?”

“-and shot the shit out of my car and almost killed my girlfriend, and I put them down,” Matt finished, almost conversationally.

O’Hara, Nevins, and McGuire looked at him curiously.

“Are you all right?” McGuire asked in concern.

“I’m fine. They missed,” Matt replied. “The victims are over here.”

Sergeant Nevins squatted beside the man on the ground, who glared hatefully at him.

“It looks like you’re off the ballet team,” he said. “But you’ll live. Fire Rescue’s on the way.”

He stood up.

“They had guns?” he asked. “Where are they?”

Matt carefully took the Browning from his hip pocket and held it out. McGuire took it.

“I put the shotgun on the roof of my car,” Matt said.

“Mickey, get the hell out of here!” McGuire ordered.

O’Hara ignored him.

“Around here, Matt?” he asked.

“Just around the corner,” Matt said. “Two angry females. The victim’s wife, who wanted to know where I was when I was needed, and my girlfriend-perhaps ex-girlfriend would be more accurate-who just described me as a cold-blooded sonofabitch for shooting these two.”

"O’Hara, I told you to get the hell out of here!” McGuire shouted after him.

“I presume the firemen are on their way?” Matt said to McGuire. “In addition to the other damage, they apparently shot out a fuel line. There’s gas all over the ground. Or maybe they got the tank.”

McGuire approached him warily.