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Scooting to the other side of the car, Zach sidled up and spilled over, landing mere inches from the track and the remorseless grind of the car wheels. He’d lost his glasses when he’d slipped out of the car, but his frantic groping was rewarded. His fingers closed on the frames; he pushed his glasses on.

The other person was still firing round after round at the pumpkin carriage. From where Zach landed, he could see the shooter’s legs as he paced back and forth, trying to see where Zach was hiding.

Zach steadied his pistol with both hands, aimed—then had to wait for the nearest set of wheels to pass—and fired.

A man’s scream of pain and outrage seemed to coincide with that deafeningbang. The man in the raincoat crumpled to the ground, still firing wildly. A ricochet pinged off the side of a carriage, whined overhead.

Zach prayed silently.

The shooter’s pistol began clicking harmlessly on an empty chamber. But did he have Flint’s weapon?

“You shattered my shin, you mother fucking little cock sucker…”

From beneath the carriage, Zach could see the man trying to crawl away. He made it a foot or two, but gave it up, moaning. He began to swear. “I’m going to kill you, you little bastard!”

Zach waited, panting, sick and shaking with adrenaline, until the last of the line of pumpkin shell cars trundled past. He pushed up, and saw to his abject relief that Flint was not dead.

In fact, Flint was not only conscious, he was on his feet.

Zach launched himself across the tracks, closing the distance between them, landing in Flint’s arms, which closed tightly around him.

“Jesus Christ. Flint…”

Flint gulped, “You okay?” Gory rivulets of blood streamed down his face. He seemed to be clutching Zach as much for support as offering comfort.

“Did he shoot you?”

Flint raised one hand, wincing as he touched his head. “That asshole couldn’t hit the side of a barn. One of his ricochets knocked a wall torch loose andthathit me.”

“Awall torchhit you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Areyouokay?”

Flint’s heart was banging like a locomotive against Zach’s. He was bruised, bloody, but alive, and Zach had never seen anything more wonderful.

“Great. Never better.”

Flint snorted, rested his face against Zach’s. “I told you to wait for the cops. Didn’t I tell you to wait?”

Zach said shakily, “I couldn’t leave you to face all those flying wall torches alone.”

Flint gave a husky laugh, raised his head and then scowled, pushing Zach aside to go after the man in the raincoat, who was trying to crawl across the tracks to where Zach had dropped his weapon.

The man raised an arm in defense. Flint knocked his arm aside, grabbed him by the front of the raincoat and pulled him upright. The fuzzy wig fell off. The man screamed in pain. “My leg! You crazy bastard. I’mshot!”

“If you don’t want to be shot again, talk. Where’s Zora?”

The man shook his head.

Flint bit out, “Last chance. Where. Is. Zora?”

“She’s not here! That was me on the phone.”

“And who the fuck are you?”

“R-Roger Simmons.”

Who the hell was Roger Simmons?