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“You can’t reach them before the responding units do.”

“I can try.”

Ben catches my shoulders.

Pain burns through the one I struck against the floor, but I don’t care.

“Calle, listen to me. You’re at Fort Baker. The beach house is south of San Francisco. Even without traffic, it would take us more than half an hour to get there.”

“Then get a boat.”

“A boat would take longer.”

“A helicopter.”

“You think Keating is going to put you in a helicopter and fly you into an active shooting scene?”

“I don’t care what he thinks.”

“I do.”

His voice is hard enough to stop me.

Keating stands several feet away, speaking into his radio.

“Confirm units approaching from the north and south. Establish a perimeter around the entire property. The suspects may attempt to escape toward the beach.”

Special Agent Marquez is on another phone, ordering federal agents toward the house.

The authorities are moving.

They know what to do.

That doesn’t make waiting easier.

Storm grabs Ward’s uninjured arm.

“We can’t leave them there.”

Ward’s face is pale beneath the evidence-room lights. The medic has bandaged the bullet graze, but blood is already showing through the white gauze.

“They have armed deputies with them,” he says.

“So did we.”

“Yes, and the officers stopped the men who came here.”

“One escaped.”

“One was captured.”

“That doesn’t help Willow.”

Ward places his hand over hers.

“No, but you running into the middle of a gunfight won’t help her either.”

Storm looks as though she hates him for being right.