Northern Lights

Lunacy Police. I'm going to ask you to lower that weapon."
    "I don't care who you say you are or what you say you want. I'm onto your tricks, you alien bastards. I'm not going back up there."
    Aliens, Nate thought. Perfect. "The alien forces in this sector have been defeated. You're safe here now, but I need you to lower your weapon."
    "So you say." But he eased out another foot. "How do I know you're not one of them?"
    Early thirties, Nate estimated. Five-ten, a hundred and fifty. Brown hair. Wild eyes, color undetermined. "I have my ID, stamped and certified after testing. You lower that weapon so I can approach, I'll show it to you."
    "ID?" He looked confused now, and the shotgun lowered an inch.
    "Underground Earth Forces certified." Nate tried a sober nod. "Can't be too careful these days."
    "They bleed blue, you know. I got two of them the last time they took me."
    "Two?" Nate lifted his eyebrows as if duly impressed, and watched the gun lower another inch. "You're going to need to be debriefed. We'll get you back to control, get your statement on record."
    "We can't let them win."
    "We won't."
    The gun barrel angled toward the ground, and Nate stepped forward.
    It happened too fast. It always happened too fast. He heard Peter open the car door, say his name. He was watching the man's face, his eyes—and he saw it come into them. Panic, rage, terror all at once.
    He was already cursing, already ordering Peter to get down. Get down! as he cleared his weapon from the holster.
    The shotgun blast shook the air, sent some bird screaming in the trees. A second pumped out as Nate dived for cover under the car.
    He was set to roll out the other side when he saw the blood on the snow.
    "Oh, God. Oh, Jesus Christ. Peter."
    His body went to lead, and for an endless moment he shook under the weight of it. He could smell the alley—the rain, over-ripe garbage. Blood.
    His breath came too fast, the high edge of panic making his head light, the bitter wash of despair turning his throat to dust. He carried it all with him as he crawled through the snow.
    Peter was sprawled behind the open door of the car, his eyes wide and glassy. "I think . . . I think I'm shot."
    "Hold on." Nate clamped a hand over Peter's arm where his jacket was torn and bloody. He could feel the warm flow—and the anvil slam of his own heart in his chest. With one eye cocked toward the cabin, he dug out a bandanna.
    If there were prayers running inside his head, he didn't recognize them.
    "It's not too bad, is it?" Peter moistened his lips, angled his head down to look. And went white as bone. "Man."
    "Listen to me. Listen." Nate tied the bandanna tight over the wound, tapped Peter's cheek to keep him from passing out. "You stay down. You're going to be all right."
    Not going to bleed out on me. Not going to die in my arms. Not again. Please God.
    He pulled Peter's weapon out of the holster. Closed Peter's hand around it. "You got this?"
    "I . . . I'm right-handed. He shot me."
    "You can use your left. He gets by me, you don't hesitate. Listen to me, Peter. He comes out here, you shoot. Aim for body mass. And you shoot until he's down."
    "Chief—"
    "Just do it."
    Nate bellied back to the rear of the car, opened the door and slid in. He slid out again with both shotguns. He could hear the man inside the house, raving. The occasional blast of fire.
    He could hear the sounds of the alley merging with it. The rain, the shouts, the running footsteps.
    He bellied back to Peter, laid one of the shotguns over his lap. "You don't pass out. Hear me? You stay awake."
    "Yes, sir."
    There was no one to call for backup. This wasn't Baltimore, and he was on his own.
    Crouched, the shotgun in one hand, his service revolver in the other, he dashed across the icy stream and into the trees. Bark exploded. He felt a knife-splice of a flying splinter hit his face just under his left eye.
    That meant the shooter's attention was on him now, and away from Peter.
    In the cover of trees, he plowed through the snow.
    His partner was shot. His partner was down.
    His breath whistled out as he tried to run through knee-deep snow, circling the cabin.
    Braced behind a tree, he studied the layout. No back door, he noted, but another window on the side. He could see the shadow of the shooter on the glass, knew he was waiting there, watching for movement.
    Nate pumped the shotgun one-handed and fired.
    Glass exploded, and with that sound, the screams, the return fire filling his ears,