BORROWED TIME.

CJ Lyons.

CHAPTER 1.

The perfect night for murder. November first, the Day of the Dead. In Pittsburgh, rain and mist fogged the streets of East Liberty. Almost midnight, the witching hour.

Blake glanced up at the clock above the cash register, his pulse jumping with each flick of the second hand. The kid behind the counter was too busy head banging to Korn to know a killer had him in his sights. Anticipation coiled in Blake's gut, a tightly wound cobra ready to strike.

He'd been planning, dreaming this moment for so long and now-three, two, one-it was here. Time to rock and roll.

He whipped the Taurus Raging Bull revolver from his jacket. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced to the customers, a middle-aged bald guy leafing through Jugs and two skinny-assed girls trying to shoplift some Twinkies, "please return to the front of the store. This is a robbery."

One of the girls looked up, annoyance on her face at the jerk playing a bad joke. Then she caught sight of the Taurus, its eight-inch chrome-plated barrel gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and tugged at her girlfriend's sleeve. Pornbrowser didn't notice them edging past him.

Blake took aim and shot out the video camera. Pornbrowser dropped his magazine and jumped back, hands in the air as if he were the one committing a felony. The girls ducked for cover. The clerk stopped chewing his gum, his mouth hanging open as he stared at Blake.

C'mon kid, Blake urged the clerk as he ushered the customers to the front of the store. You know the drill. Hit the alarm. Do it. Do it!

The kid remained a statue. Blake even half turned his back, gave him a golden opportunity, but the clerk didn't move. Jeezit, did he have to do everything himself? He needed to get going, time was a-wasting.

"Empty the drawer," Blake commanded. The kid finally blinked and looked down, fiddled with the register. And, hallelujah, hit the silent alarm. "Hey, while you're at it, give me a piece of that gum."

The kid looked ready to choke on his own wad of Bubblicious. Blake popped a piece into his mouth, enjoying the sugary rush of strawberry flavor found nowhere in the natural world. He cracked a bubble. The loud pop made the kid jump, hands up as if they could stop a bullet.

Two past midnight, and the party was only beginning.

"Too many civilians," Officer Kate O'Hern said as she nudged the Chevy Impala against the curb. From this vantage point they could see the entire front half of the Minimart, its neon facade glistening in the November drizzle.

Her partner, Rob Hansen, finished calling for backup. "We'll wait until he comes out. You want point or flank?"

It tickled Kate that even after three years together, Rob still asked her preference. Not because he didn't know what she would say, but because he was just that kind of guy. Old fashioned, polite. Kate manipulated this weakness without remorse-Rob had a wife and two kids to go home to. She didn't have anyone depending on her getting home alive.

"Point," she told him.

"You always hog all the fun." He opened the cruiser's door, then turned back. "No heroics. Wait until I have a clear shot."

"Don't worry. I leave all that John Wayne stuff up to you."

Rob lowered himself to a crouch and jogged across the street, hugging the shadows. He concealed himself in the alley beside the store where he would have an unobstructed view of the actor's back when the gunman exited.

Inside the store, the man shoved the bag of cash inside his jacket. The gunman was tall, about six-four, with a shaved head, wearing a bulky army fatigue parka. Kate could see his lips moving. Who was he talking to?

She opened her door. November mist and rain swirled into the cruiser. Her vision centered on the gunman and the door he would exit through. Why was he taking so long?

Something wasn't right here.

The wind ruffled the few short curls that snuck out from beneath the rim of her uniform cap, raising goose bumps on the back of her neck. Was there another actor, hiding? Was this an ambush?

Kate stood behind the car door, settled into an isosceles position and took aim. She scanned the location, searching for the source of her foreboding. Nothing, only the midnight mist casting halos around the storefront's neon facade. The streets were empty.

And still. Too still. Where was her backup?

She squinted through the drizzle, tried to get a good look at the actor's face. Not his features, his expression. She wanted a read on his intentions.

What she saw didn't reassure her. He tilted his chin up, flashed her a wide grin as he opened the door and strode out.

Before she could warn Rob of her apprehensions, the gunman cleared the door. Kate straightened, her Glock raised. The drumming of the rain faded into the night. As she concentrated her full attention on the gunman's hands, individual raindrops blurred and vanished. There was her Glock, the void of the pavement, and the actor's two black-gloved hands holding a very large, very shiny, very silver Taurus semi-automatic. The Taurus weighed almost three pounds, fully loaded, yet the gunman held it nonchalantly, competently, comfortably. Rob stepped forward on the actor's blind side.

"Police," Kate shouted. "Drop your weapon and place your hands in the air."

"Sure thing, sweetcakes," the gunman said, wheeling toward Rob.

Kate fired as he shot Rob point blank in the face. Rob stumbled backwards. His body fell in slow motion as if this were a surrealistic silent film. She got off her second shot before Rob struck the ground. She hit the gunman in the chest both times, but he barely flinched. He pivoted, firing at her, his Taurus shimmering a ghostly blue in the neon lights.

The force of the bullets pounded into Kate, knocking her back. She landed in a sitting position, her body propped up by the cruiser. The door blocked her view.

Was he coming to finish her? She tried to raise her Glock, but her arm hung useless, leaden. The copper, salty smells of blood and gunpowder flooded over her. Dark spots danced before her eyes. She blinked, struggled to clear her vision. Feeling like she was underwater, she could hear nothing except blood rushing through her head.

A man's gloved hand, eerily disembodied, reached past the car door toward her. The gunman snatched her hat, releasing her hair to fall around her face in a sweat-plastered mass of dark curls.

Her hearing returned in a thunderclap, shouts and screams and sirens crashing down on her. The shooter's laughter cascaded through the night, echoing in her mind. He ran away, his footsteps gleeful splashes.

Kate swallowed fire with each breath. Thank God for her vest. Didn't think it would hurt so much, though.

She tried to stand, had to get help for Rob- Then she saw the blood. There was a helluva lot of it. Where'd it come from?

The question seemed unimportant. She needed to get to Rob. Jenn would kill her if Kate let anything happen to him. All she had to do was stand up, what was so damned hard about that?

Kate pitched forward onto her face. She opened her eyes, the only movement she could perform, and found herself staring into the gaping maw of a sewer grate.

A plopping sound echoed below her. Somewhere a voice told her it was the sound of her blood. Spilling, pouring out of her. Fast. Much too fast.

The throbbing in her chest and the noise of the city faded away. She was surrounded by a void, the only sound the awful splat, splat, faster and louder, drowning out everything else, even her heartbeat. It grew into a bone-grating crescendo, a cacophony of blinding noise that clawed at her mind.

Then, after one last, shrill wail, everything went quiet.

Kate stood below a grassy hill in the midst of wild flowers. A gentle breeze swirled their perfume, wafting the delicate scents like laundry hung out to dry. At the top of the hill was a whitewashed farmhouse with red shutters. Its doors and windows stood open, and a brilliant light spilled out from inside.

She started up the hill. At first it was difficult moving her legs, as if they were mired down by weights trying to anchor her six feet under. Gradually it became easier, and she glided through the grass and flowers, almost floating on air. As Kate grew closer to the house, she could hear a sweet music coming from it, a lullaby, achingly familiar.

She was almost to the doorway. Tears flowed down her cheeks, she was so happy to be here. Kate had waited her entire life for this. She took a step over the threshold.

The shooter's laugh and his ghastly grin filled her mind as she was wrenched backward into the dark, screaming void she had escaped.

"I've got a pulse back," a man's voice called out, calm, commanding. "Hang another unit of O-negative. Chest tube in yet?"

Pain became Kate's entire reality. Something or someone forced air into her lungs, numerous hands slid over her, poking, prodding, tearing at her flesh.

I'm dead and gone to Hell.

CHAPTER 2.

A brilliant light stabbed through Kate's closed eyelids. Strange, high-pitched beeps swirled around her head. Air shot into her lungs, exploding her chest with pain. She writhed, struggling with the unseen force controlling her breathing.

In a panic, she opened her eyes.

The shooter loomed over her, pinning her down. Wanting to scream, she raised her head, but something was stuck in her throat, cutting off her air. The gunman's grin widened, splitting his face like a jack-o-lantern. His howling laugh echoed in her skull. She strained against his hands, threw all her energy into the fight.

Where was Rob? She had to protect her partner, watch his back.

"Relax, O'Hern," came a man's voice.

She blinked and the gunman vanished, replaced by the scowling countenance of John Turner, her watch Commander. She continued to struggle, this time against the awful truth. There was only one reason for Turner to be holding vigil at her bedside.

Rob was dead.

His hand closed on her right shoulder, stilling her movements. "You don't want to tear the stitches, start bleeding again."

Kate gagged as the breathing machine forced air into her lungs. Pain shot through her chest, cascading like a volley of bullets. Her left side and shoulder felt crushed, shredded, throbbing-no one word could begin to describe the barrage of agony. Agony compounded by waking to Turner's face. His usual deep-seated frown was etched into dark crevices of anger and grief. She knew exactly what he was thinking.

Why wasn't it her instead of Rob?

"You know, O'Hern," he pitched his voice low as he leaned close, his hand still on her shoulder, pressing her against the bed, "I never liked Hansen, but he was a good cop-before he met you. And Lord knows why, but Jennifer-"

Jenn. Good God, had Turner made the notification himself? Of course he had, it wasn't like Kate could have done it, not lying here blissfully unconscious. It was exactly the kind of thing Turner would have done, everything by the book. Pressure built behind her eyes, she felt as if she should be crying, but her eyes were parched. So was her mouth. She tried to lick her lips, but the tube got in the way, threatened to gag her again.

Kate pictured Turner breaking the news to his estranged daughter. Telling Jenn her husband had died. Jenn hadn't spoken to Turner since before she and Rob were married, how would she have taken it, hearing the news from her own father?

Turner continued, ignoring her pain. "I spent yesterday picking out the casket, made all the arrangements." His fingers tightened on her arm as if he searched for a touchstone of his own. "At least she won't have to do that. Face that."

Kate squeezed her eyes tight against his words, still trying to absorb the one fact that changed everything in her universe. Rob was dead.

Visions of his shattered face, his body falling in slow motion sped through her mind. She should have been the one to help Jenn, to be there for her. That's what partners did.

Turner exhaled, a noxious stench of over-cooked garlic and onions that reminded her of the sewer drain she had almost died in. Beeping noises chattered around her. The swish of the torture device forcing air into her lungs and the whirl of IV pumps, mixed together, punctuating the pounding in her head.

"It didn't have to happen this way," Turner continued, his spidery fingers drumming against her arm, commanding her attention. "I offered Rob a slot on days. It should have gone to someone with more time in, but with the new baby, I thought it might help make life easier. You know, he turned me down flat? Said you two had a good thing going, he didn't want a new partner."

Kate blinked, her eyelids feeling as scratchy as Velcro. There was a tube down her nose in addition to the one blocking her throat. She couldn't make any sound, was powerless to do anything except meet the condemnation in Turner's eyes.

Did the Commander know about their secret, know what she and Rob had done? Was that why Turner had offered Rob a chance to join day shift? Turner usually bent over backwards to give Rob and Kate the shit details, to prove that even though Rob was married to his only child there was no favoritism, not in his House.

If Rob had accepted the day shift assignment, he'd still be alive.

Turner obviously agreed. He leaned closer, his fingers squeezing tighter. "So help me, O'Hern," his voice emerged in a low hiss, "if I find out you screwed up out there, I'm going to nail your bony ass to the wall. No medical miracle is going to save you this time." Spittle flew from his lips, landing on her cheeks like sparks from a bonfire. "It's bad enough what you and that SOB put my daughter through-"

Kate stared up at him. Surely he didn't believe, couldn't believe, she and Rob- Suddenly, Turner's face blurred. Everything became dark, the only light a strange green glow coming from behind her.

A man's hand touched her face. It was the shooter. Her pulse hammered in her ears, so loud she thought her head might explode. Sweat drenched her, yet she was shivering. The man's finger brushed against her lips, it was wet, dripping with fluid.

Was it blood? She retched, turned her head away. He reached down to her left shoulder, squeezed. Her bones scraped together, releasing a lightning bolt of pain. Kate cried out. The man closed his lips over hers and she lay powerless, helpless beneath him.

A shrill alarm lanced into Kate's consciousness as she struggled to break free. Her vision cleared. The gunman vanished. A stranger appeared, leaning over her, filling her vision. A pair of dark blue eyes met hers, tugged at her, offering a lifeline out of her torture.

"Hey now, everything's going to be all right. Quiet down there, slugger," came a man's voice. It sounded oddly familiar. Calm, soothing.

She blinked and stopped fighting.

"I think it's time for you to leave now," the man told Turner.

Turner stepped back, giving her one last glower, then stalked away. The stranger reached up, silencing the alarm.

"I'm Doctor Lightner," he said. "You're in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit at Three Rivers Medical Center. There's a tube in your airway, hooked up to a ventilator-a breathing machine. You need to relax, let the machine do all the work."

He spoke in slow, distinct words as if she were a baby. Kate wanted to give him the finger, leap from the bed and track down the shooter.

Except the shooter wasn't here. She blinked, trying to decide which reality to believe in. The daydream had seemed so real, she still tasted the acid bite of terror.

The merciless machine expanded her lungs again. Kate closed her eyes, tried to ignore the pain spiraling through her chest and the confusion clouding her mind.

She opened them again as she felt a hand fumbling near her left breast. Get your fucking hands off me! Lightner didn't even bother to draw the privacy curtain as he poked and prodded and muttered to his group of white-coated sycophants behind him.

She was naked under the gown. There was some kind of tube in her bladder. Tape and bandages swathed her left breast and shoulder, her legs were wrapped in plastic stockings that squeezed her calves and thighs, her left hand was useless and her right was tied to the bed rail, leaving her powerless to do anything except give Lightner her best eat-shit-and-die glare.

Lightner's eyes flashed with amusement as he met her gaze. He straightened, casually flipped her gown back over her. He had brown hair, trimmed close, typical of a man too busy to take the time to do more than run a comb or his fingers through it. A quick smile flitted over his face, then he turned away. Kate heard him muttering something about rate and pressures to another person out of sight.

"Wound's healing nicely, but there's still blood from her JP," Lightner continued without bothering to translate. "Would you like to get rid of the endotracheal tube?" he asked Kate in that same patronizing tone he'd used earlier.

She swallowed her anger and nodded meekly. He patted her hand, then untied it from the soft restraints, freeing her. "If you make some progress today, I'll take it out tomorrow."

Lightner left without saying anything more. All Kate saw was the back of his white coat moving away. She slumped back, the memory of the shooting flooding over her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, straining to regain the bliss of unconsciousness, trying to block out the sight of Rob's shattered face.