Congrats to Kathy Steinemann

I dove into the underbrush as a bullet whizzed past my ear. This dude’s good. Crap, my Glock is jammed! I slid out my SIG—and waited.

Get your breathing under control, Wes. C’mon. You can do this.

Crunching boots on dry leaves; a branch breaking; the silhouette of my pursuer as he passed by my hiding place; labored panting; footfalls and splashes in the water; the noise of the hounds diminishing as they disappeared into the distance.

Just you and me, bub.

I rolled onto the path. Then I paused. I don’t think he heard me.

I inched forward, every nerve and muscle twitching with excitement. Damn, you’re turned on, aren’t you? Get a grip. I could see the guy’s back about 20 feet ahead, crouched down with his weapon aimed in front of him, scanning from side to side as he crept onward like a panther on the prowl.

Gotcha! You’re dead. I moved as only a well-trained cop can, alert for danger, senses in hyper drive, ready to react—and I didn’t notice the sinkhole until I was covered with mud and dirt up to my chin. A pistol cocked behind me.

Guess this is it. He wins—and so does my drycleaner. With a rueful smile, I raised my hands above my head and tossed the SIG onto the creek bank.

My tracker’s teeth reflected the little bit of sunlight squeezing through the branches. “You’re under arrest. There’s no room on the force for dirty cops.”