...I was at least ten minutes out, and I knew there were other units in the area that would arrive before me. The back roads weren’t set up for high speeds. In fact, in some spots if you didn’t slow down you’d wind up in the deep ditches that ran alongside the roads.

The radio was quiet, and my stomach rolled with each silent minute.

A panicked voice I recognized as the caller shouted, “I need an ambulance! Officer down! We need help! Oh, God, officer down!”

My foot pressed harder on the accelerator. Every officer’s adrenaline must have red lined with those words “officer down.” I know mine did. The dispatcher confirmed the call for the ambulance. It would come from 290, where Riceland Memorial was located, and they’d get there before I would.

What the hell was going on? Someone had shot the officer who responded to the call? Shit. What about the caller? What was he doing calling for help on our radio?

There was some chatter, but I wasn’t listening to it as I drove too fast and took too many chances on the curves. At last, up ahead, the strobe of blue and red lights marked the scene.

When I pulled up and parked I could see the EMTs working on one of our officers lying on the ground in the middle of the bridge that spanned the creek. My first duty was to see to my wounded man. The medics ran tubing into his arm and called his stats into the hospital. One of the paramedics gave me a thumbs up, indicating he’d be all right.

I recognized him. Donald Hagan. One of our patrol officers, he’d been with the department almost ten years. Wife. Two kids.

Fuck.

I turned my attention to what was going on around me.

Two other patrol cars had arrived at the scene before I did and they were blocking both ends of the bridge. A late model Volvo station wagon had parked on the side of the road at the near end of the bridge.

Walking toward where the uniforms had gathered, I took in the scene. Hagan’s patrol car was parked behind the Volvo, trouble lights still spinning. The Volvo’s driver’s side rear window glass had shattered all over the back seat. I looked inside and spotted a worn black leather jacket on the passenger seat. The rear of the wagon was filled with flats of colorful plants.

I moved on toward the wrecked car at the other end of the bridge, then stopped.

What I didn’t see was the man who’d called this in. I was beginning to wonder if I’d imagined his voice when I approached the patrol car just past the wrecked vehicle and spotted a man in the backseat.

I trotted up to the car and froze, my hand resting on the butt of the semi-automatic on my hip, and looked at him through the window of the cruiser. His hands had been cuffed behind his back and he leaned forward, resting his head on the back of the driver’s seat. Light brown hair, almost wild and unkempt, haloed his head and his lips moved as if he were mumbling. He didn’t have a shirt on.

This couldn’t be the same man. I looked around the scene again, but all I spotted were uniforms and medics.

He turned his head to look at me.

His eyes were blue pools of hurt. Sadness, dismay, and fear swam in them, too, but mostly hurt. He was the most beautiful man I think I’d ever seen. Beautiful, fragile, but sensual.

In that instant, I knew he was gay.

I stood there staring at him and then tried to make sense of the scene. This had to be the man on the phone because there was no one else present. He’d called for help and now he sat in the back of a cruiser, like he’d been arrested.

What the hell was going on?

Our gazes locked through the window. His eyebrows furrowed, his head tilted, and I could hear him thinking, Huh, a Chinese cop. He licked his full lips and grimaced at the taste of blood running from the corner of his mouth. Then he lowered his head against the back of the seat again and closed his eyes.