Sunday, August 7, 2016:

I actually slept very well that night considering every shootout and fight that we'd had with O'Donnell henchmen over the past few days. I think it was because I wasn't dreaming about O'Donnell's crimes, but rather was reliving the happiest day of my life to date: my wedding. My memories of that day were some of the best. I remembered Adrian wearing his police dress blues instead of a conventional tuxedo, my dad was his best man, Natalie was my bridesmaid, and that my dad had gotten one of his many friends, the honorable judge Clarence Stanton, to preside over the ceremony.

"We are gathered here today to join Adrian and Kendra in holy matrimony. They've prepared some thoughts of their own to share with you today before they declare their vows. Adrian, you may begin."

Adrian turned and took my hands in his. "Kendra, you fill a big hole in my life that I've spent years trying to fill. I promise to love you with all my heart and that I will always be there for you, on the streets, during gunfights, and most importantly, in my arms."

I had to fight the urge to break down crying.

"Adrian, I've always spent my life believing that the one thing missing from my life was a police investigator to spend it with. And now I've found you, and I promise you, I will never let you go, no matter what the circumstances may be."

We turned to fact Judge Stanton, who then recited the typical wedding vows heard at weddings aplenty nationwide. I couldn't help the fact that I was getting pretty teary-eyed, but I maintained my composure. Once the vows were completed, my dad gave Adrian my wedding ring, which he slipped onto my ring finger with ease. A moment later, Natalie handed me Adrian's ring, which I gave to him.

"By the power invested in me by the state of California," Stanton said, "I pronounce you man and wife."

My face broadened into a childlike grin as Adrian pulled me in for a big kiss, much to the audience's delight.

In part because of my wedding dreams, I actually slept so well that I think you could have fired an AK-47 with the barrel two inches away from my eardrum and I wouldn't be awakened. But eventually, I was pulled out of my deep sleep by the sound of my alarm clock going off at about 7:00. As I sat up, I felt like me whole body was sticky with sweat from head to toe. I felt even slicker than a frying pan after cooking up a slab of bacon. But I guess that your whole body sweating is to be expected when you go to bed wearing long-sleeve pajamas and a robe that are probably more practical for a winter environment, and you're sleeping with your comforter over that. My throat felt dry and my left arm felt numb, like I'd been sleeping with it at a crooked angle under my pillow.

Ah, what a beautiful morning.

I dragged myself out of bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, still feeling like I was reliving the events of the previous evening's gun battle.

"I can do this," I said to myself as I walked into the bathroom, "There's no way he'll be able to target us 250 feet up."

I took a nice hot shower, long enough soak all the sweat off my skin, then I strapped on my 'battle clothes': the black t-shirt, black pants, black shoes, and black Trafalgar vest-jacket I'd been wearing every day since Denise Hossack's death. By instinct, I also draped Greg Murray's old tour jacket over my left arm as a sort of security blanket. Looking at myself in the mirror, I could have been Snow White with my dark black hair, almost milk-white skin and dark red lipstick. I had just finished putting a bunch of spare gun clips into my pants pockets when I heard a knock on the door.

"Come on in, Adrian!" I said.

Adrian came in, and I noticed he was holding a small jewelry box.

"Happy birthday, Kendra," he said.

"What's that in your hand?" I asked. Then I smiled. "No wait, don't tell me, that's my dad's gift."

"Check it out," he replied. He popped open the box, revealing…..a gold chain necklace with a ruby pendant. I couldn't tell whether it was one Adrian had gotten for me or if my dad had dropped it off during the night. I squealed in delight.

"Do you like it?" Adrian asked.

"Are you kidding?! I love it!" I exclaimed, flashing my pearly white teeth at him.

"I figured you would," Adrian said, putting on a similar smile.

I picked up the necklace and took a closer look at it.

"Is this real gold?" I asked, feeling the chain between my pointer and index finger.

"24 karat," he replied. I looked back up at Adrian and grinned. "You have really good tastes. Is this the box that was on my dad's desk the other day?"

"Uh-huh," he said, "I swiped it while you and Natalie had your backs turned and I've been holding it ever since."

"You sly thief," I replied, grin unfaltering.

Adrian took the pendant back, and set the box down on my nightstand while he placed the pendant around my neck. When he was done and he'd secured the clasp, the necklace settled so that the ruby was centered directly below my larynx.

"Do you think I look nicer with this thing on me?" I asked, gesturing to the ruby.

"I don't think you look nice, Kendra," Adrian said. "It's more like, you are."

He suddenly kissed me on the mouth and all thought promptly slipped from my mind at the speed of a stock car.

I barely had time to react as he cradled my face in his hands and pressed his lips against mine. He broke the kiss and slowly pulled his face away from mine. My first thought was, This is so passionate and so romantic, Adrian. Do it a bit harder.

"Don't go away," I whispered. I leaned towards him, gripping the front of his shirt for leverage. I gasped as I felt him put his hands around my waist. My eyelids fluttered open, almost as if I was about to pull away again.

But it was clear Adrian's intention was to make out with me, and now I'd let that urge get the better of me. I moved my hands up to his neck, kissed him again, and took the lead. His lips parted and I began to explore his mouth with my tongue. Adrian made a small murmur of surprise and stroked my back.

This kiss was nothing like some of our more heated makeout sessions; this one was passionate, but also much more tender and sweet, and we were making out. I wasn't thinking at all about O'Donnell. All I could think of was Adrian – him holding me snug against him, his lips on mine, and his fingers mussing up my hair.

"Oh, Adrian," I whispered between kisses. He let out an audible hum in response. His hands began to move from the sides of my head down my back, holding me even closer to him. Boldly, I planted a light kiss on the side of his mouth. I pressed a few more in a line skimming his jaw and his neck, varying in intensity. Adrian shifted a bit, very vocal in his approval, content to give in to my ministrations.

"Kendra, you seem very satisfied."

Adrian's voice, now sounding roughened from desire, probably would have made him blush if it weren't for the heat from my kisses. I had paused somewhere over the neck of his shirt.

"It's my birthday, we've got a meeting with Paul Braddock, and we've been in several gunfights," I said, "What else could it be?"

Perhaps if Adrian had been looking a bit more carefully, he'd have seen my cheeks had flushed red.

"What matter more is that you're happy," Adrian said. I had my head nestled in the crook of his neck. He paused for a moment as he marveled at how right this felt before continuing. "It is, after all, your day."

I didn't immediately reply. Adrian glanced down to look at my face, buried in his neck. My skin must have felt unusually hot against his. "Kendra?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine," I said, practically squeaking.

Adrian chuckled. "You seem to be changing moods on me."

His chuckle was cut off when I yanked hard on his face and kissed him again on the mouth, this time very forcefully. His hands once again moved to cup my face, fingering my long hair as he pressed his lips to mine, his tongue darting out to taste my mouth now.

I hummed into the kiss, putting my hands through his hair and holding him closer to me in reply. My finger movements were mirroring his, raking his scalp and producing some very pleasurable sensations in him and in me. I could also feel liquid warmth pooling in my midsection. His mouth moved against mine in an effort to taste more of me.

Adrian turned his attention to my own neck. My eyelids fluttered as I felt his tongue caress the exposed part of my collarbone not covered by my t-shirt or my jacket. I emitted a soft murmur that could have been anything. His lips were teasing with the soft skin around my lower neck. I suddenly wanted more pleasure in my mouth area, which now felt neglected. My hands seized his face and pulled it back towards mine, kissing him like I was on fire.

"Kendra," he growled against my lips, and his voice had this tone that sounded somewhere between needy and longing. "Kendra…."

I gave a drawn-out moan as I kissed him again. "Adrian…"

Adrian wondered for a moment, on how my hair was hopelessly entangled in his fingers, my face was flushed, my eyes glazed over with lust, and yet I still looked beautiful.

Some internal degree of self-control inserted itself and Adrian gently caught my chin, pulling it up to meet his eyes.

"Hi," he breathed.

"Hi," I said back, meeting his gaze. I formed a small grin from my somewhat swollen lips. It took Adrian a moment to remember whatever he was going to say next.

"Kendra, I…" He took a steadying breath, "I love you very much, Kendra."

My eyes flickered. "…I do back to you," I said.

"But I…if we could do that all over again," Adrian said.

"I know," I said, and smiled.

We spent the next few moments looking into each other's eyes, admiring each others' reddened lips and mussed hair. This was interrupted by a knock on my bedroom door.

"Adrian, Kendra, bacon's ready," she said.

Adrian turned.

"Coming, Natalie!" he said. "Kendra, it seems your fried pork fetish is going to be really satisfied today."

I grinned. "I could kiss you for saying that!"

Since it was my birthday, breakfast was going to be themed to my favorite food in the whole world: bacon. Yeah, I've mentioned that I have to eat red meat at every meal, but I have to eat fried pork every morning. It's the only meat that tips the three chief sensors of scientifically proven gustatory pleasure: fattiness, saltiness and sweetiness. And yet I still stay thin because of my high metabolism and the amount of energy I use up with makeout sessions and shootouts.

So for this morning, Natalie had cooked up a full slab of bacon on the stove, and had shown off her secondary skills as a professional chef by also supplying pancakes with bacon syrup.

Adrian, Natalie and I swapped sections of the Chronicle between each other as we ate our bacon themed breakfast in the dining room, and admired the beautiful view of downtown and north central San Francisco. To no one's surprise, the shootout at the restaurant had made the front page, with the front page photo being a photo of police officers removing the bodies of the henchmen we'd killed from the restaurant. The front page headline read, "MULTIPLE CASUALTIES IN IRISH GANG SHOOTOUT".

"Well at least they're honest and not trying to embellish anything," I said.

Adrian read from the article, "Yeah. Even better, 'Department spokesman Leland Stottlemeyer refused to comment on the identities of the victims or the potential ties to the attempted assassination of El Dorado Trust chairman Patrick McClellan and his wife on August 4th. He also refused to release the identities of the officers who instigated the shootout, pending further investigation.' So they don't know our names. We're still very much in the clear."

I grinned at Adrian.

"Being in the clean is better than being dirty," I said.

"I know that," he said.

I took a small sip from my coffee cup.

"Anything in the morning crime reports, Adrian?" I asked. "I assume you were doing that before you came into my room to smooch with me and give me this necklace."

"Not much," Adrian said, recapping what he'd read, "There's been a double homicide in the Sunset District. Appears to have been drug-related."

"Who's taking that?" I asked.

"Papovich is taking that one," Adrian said, "We've also got a break-in at an Urban Habitat in the Richmond District. That's, uh, one of those furniture stores that sells compact furniture for confined spaces. Someone apparently broke in by shattering the glass on an emergency exit door but didn't take anything."

"Interesting," I said, "But none of our concern, I gather."

"Nope. As far as I can tell, it looks like a straight-up case of vandalism," Adrian replied, "And it's not the first break-in. There was another one last Sunday at an outlet in Pacifica."

"No crimes that sound like O'Donnell crimes?" I asked.

"There was one of interest," Adrian answered, "Some thieves broke into a Davenport Gas & Electric facility in Balboa Park last night and stole 15 Chevrolet Express vans."

Natalie looked stunned to hear her father's company's name being brought up again regarding criminals.

"How can we be so sure that the theft is O'Donnell's work?" I asked.

"I didn't say it is O'Donnell's work," Adrian replied, "I said there's a possibility that it might be him. Look, utility company work vans are very inconspicuous. No one ever asks any questions about them when they drive around. Plus, with the logo of a legitimate company on them, no one thinks they're actually being driven by criminals."

"Where are the vans then?"

"Whoever it is, they've probably been stashed in some secret garage or underground lair or warehouse," Adrian said, "But there's no proof that it was O'Donnell. Until proof comes up to suggest otherwise, that crime is being handled by the Auto Theft Division."

"Nothing new on the journalist murders or the McClellan attacks or Martha Jansen?" I asked.

"The fingerprint report arrived last night on Reordan's apartment," Adrian said, "The killer folded and ironed the dish towels and napkins in the kitchen. And they found some fingerprints on the iron that were matched to O'Donnell."

Natalie took a sip of her coffee.

"No surprise," I said, "He must have talked his way in."

"That's not all," Adrian said, "Forensics found some fresh fingerprints in Reordan's bedroom that were matched to Nikki Nemzer."

"Reordan and Denise's boss?" I asked. "You're saying she's involved?"

"It's also possible," Adrian said, "But then again, she may have just left them behind from a prior visit. I suppose we should question her again, just to be safe."

He took a deep, luxuriating breath. "Kendra, it being your birthday, is there anything you'd like to do? Aside from making out and meeting Paul Braddock and going out to dinner?"

"I'm up to just lounging around here," I said. Adrian and Natalie glanced at me. "Just joking. I would like to go to Alcatraz and look at C-D Street."

"We could do that," Adrian nodded.

You may have noticed that although she was there with us, Natalie wasn't contributing to the conversation, although it was clear that she was paying attention. She had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, she had her sunglasses on, and she was wearing a dark blue button shirt underneath the long coat that she wore to conceal her gun and magazines in public. It was the same clothing she'd worn yesterday. I was getting bothered by her silence.

"Are you okay, Natalie?" I asked. "You've been very quiet this whole time."

"I'm fine," she said, bluntly, "Thanks for asking."

"You sound a little tired," Adrian said.

Natalie sighed and removed her sunglasses. Now I realized she looked terrible. She had dark circles underneath her eyes, like she hadn't been sleeping well.

"Adrian, Kendra," she said, in a low voice, "I'm burned out by this case. I-I didn't sleep well last night. I spent the night imagining myself getting shot by O'Donnell in that restaurant. And you know what I thought? No more playing games, no more playing hide-and-seek. If ever there is a scumbag out there who deserves to get a bullet between his eyes, it's him. And after all that happened yesterday, I swear to God, I want that man dead. I don't care about his other men; I want O'Donnell dead."

Those last few words sounded very disturbing. It wasn't like Natalie to wish death upon a criminal like this. The way she said it, she sounded like she was disgusted that O'Donnell ever existed.

"Do you want to see a therapist?" Adrian asked. "The department's got a bunch of good ones to help cops dealing with PTSD after line-of-duty incidents."

Natalie made a small smile. "I appreciate it, Adrian, but I don't think Dr. Bell would be able to help. Besides, PTSD isn't a thing as far as I'm concerned."

"You're not usually like this, Natalie," Adrian said.

"And O'Donnell is not a typical criminal," Natalie said.

The three of us continued to look at each other for a minute or so. That minute was interrupted by the trill of my cell phone ringing.

I checked the caller ID. It was Danielle Hossack.

"Danielle?" I asked.

"Morning, Miss Davenport," Danielle said.

"This is a nice surprise," I said.

"I wanted to wish you a happy birthday," Danielle said, "I saw the notification on my Facebook page."

"Thanks, Danielle," I said. "Anything on Douglas O'Donnell, O'Brien, Murdoch, or Donoghue?"

"No," Danielle said, "I think they've vanished. They're probably in hiding. At least that's what my Intertect friends are suggesting."

"Really?" I said. "So what are you calling about?"

"You promised me that you were taking my sister's murder pro bono," Danielle said, "I was wondering if you could look into something for me."

"What is it?" I asked.

"There's this firefighter I've been seeing from time to time," Danielle said, "His name's Matthew McQuinn. We've been dating for a couple months."

"I don't think I want to know this," I said.

"…Anywys, last night, after I got home, he came over," Danielle said, "We talked, ate some pizza, went to my bedroom and yadda yadda yadda, he mentioned that a guard dog was killed at his firehouse on Wednesday night in a burglary, and some of his rescue equipment was stolen."

"You just yadda-yadda'd over the best part!" I said, "Were you fornicating?"

I heard Danielle sigh.

"Yes, we were," she said.

"Well I'm terribly sorry to hear about the dog," I said, "I take it he wanted you to investigate?"

"He asked me to look into it," Danielle said, "I told him that I was going to take some target practice today. I also told him I was going to send you guys."

"What, why can't you go?" I asked.

"I was lying when I said to him that I was going to do some target practice," she replied, "In actuality, I just need to pay a visit to my parents. They're probably worried sick about me."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," I said. I checked my watch. "Well, Adrian, Natalie and I don't have nothing planned for today aside from the meeting you arranged for us with Braddock. I suppose we can do it."

"Thank you so much," Danielle said, "I really appreciate this."

I was about to press the red button to terminate the phone call when something else struck me. "Oh, one more thing, Danielle, before I forget. You don't by any chance have a case file for this?"

"I got a friend in the SFPD to loan me a copy," she said, "It's at my house if you're interested. Do you want me to bring it over or…"

"We can stop by your place," I said.

"OK. I'll leave it in my mailbox."

I hung up the phone and relayed the message to Adrian and Natalie.

"As long as it's not an O'Donnell related crime, sure, we should check this out," Natalie said, "I'm up for it."

"Then let's do it," Adrian said, "Kendra, this can be your birthday present."

I turned to him and grinned.

"You think? Dog murders are a birthday present?" I asked. I threw my arms around him and kissed him again.

Once Natalie had put some concealer on to cover up the circles under her eyes, the three of us departed the penthouse at around 8:30 a.m. After taking a quick detour to Danielle's front porch to pick up the case file, which included forensics reports, ballistic reports, and witness statements, we were on our way to the firehouse.

Fire Company 10 in Laurel Heights had a dramatic view of Sutro Tower to the south, and sat on Presidio Boulevard, directly across Bush Street from a bus depot where Muni stored many of its electric buses. The garage itself was an ordinary redbrick building with three garage doors. The fire department seal was centered over the middle of the three doors. In the south berth sat two trucks – Light Rescues Unit 9 and C.B.R.N.E. Unit 1, one of the fire department's two Hazmat trucks. In the middle berth sat Ladder Truck #10 and the SUV for Battalion 10. In the north berth sat Rescue Squad #3 and Engine Company #10.

Adrian, Natalie and I parked our car at the northeast corner of Bush and Pine Streets, within sight of the firehouse. As we got out of the car, Adrian slipped on his sunglasses. I gave a look at him and grinned.

"What, are we playing Secret Service agents, Adrian?" I coyly asked.

"Do I look like a Secret Service agent, Kendra?" Adrian said, flirtatiously.

I laughed.

"Very funny," I said. I put on my sunglasses, and Natalie put on her shades as well.

"Kendra, I know I've said this to you before, but you look even more beautiful when you wear sunglasses," Adrian said. He impulsively pulled me in and gave me a fairly wet kiss. I smiled.

"You keep this up, you're going to set a new record for most times you've kissed me in one day," I said when he pulled back.

"What's the current record?" Adrian asked.

"I have no idea," I said.

As we entered the firehouse, I could see dozens of on-duty firefighters going around, doing business. It seemed like it was just a typical morning here.

A couple of men were cleaning the trucks with rags. I could see a few men doing inventory on the equipment in Light Rescues Unit 9. At the back of the garage, behind Truck 10, there was a table with several foldout chairs, at which about five or six guys were playing cards.

One guy stood up. He was a bald guy in his fifties, wearing a pair of spectacles. His dog tags said "WILSON."

"Excuse me, who are you three?" he asked.

"San Francisco Police Department," Adrian said, producing a police badge.

"What do you guys want?" the firefighter asked.

"Where's Matthew McQuinn? We were told he would be here," I said.

"What's this about?"

"We came to talk to him about his do-" I was midway through saying the word "dog" when a loud alarm bell went off. All three of us flinched.

"What the hell is that?!" I said, rubbing my ears, pained.

Everyone in the garage stopped what they were doing.

"Engine 10, Truck 10, Battalion 10, 1-9-0-8 Pierce Street, Fire," an automated voice said on an overhead speaker, "Engine 10, Truck 10, Battalion 10, 1-9-0-8 Pierce Street, Fire."

"That's us," the firefighter we were speaking to said to another firefighter. He and a substantial number of the other firemen jumped into action.

"Okay, but where's McQuinn-" I started to say, but the firefighter ignored us. I sighed. I muttered, "Some firefighter…."

We stood, dumbstruck, and watched as the firefighters of the listed crews slipped into their firefighting gear – coats, helmets, oxygen tanks, and gas masks – in a matter of seconds. I had to admire that how they were expertly trained at this craft. All of them slipped on large protective headphones as they climbed into their cabs.

"Let's go!" I heard a firemen shout to one of the drivers. The diesel engines on both trucks came to life. As we watched, the spinning red and white emergency lights on the roofs were activated. A moment later, I saw Battalion 10's SUV pull out onto the street. It activated its siren and roared away. At about the same time, Engine 10 pulled out of its space, waited until there was a gap in cars on the road, and then drove off. Another moment later, Truck 10 left the firehouse and drove off. There were three vehicles still parked in the garage –the Light Rescues unit and Hazmat truck in the south bay, and Rescue Squad 3 in the north parking bay.

The table we were standing by was forward of the left rear tire of the Hazmat truck, next to where the words "SAN FRANCISCO FIRE DEPARTMENT C.B.R.N.E. HAZARDOUS MATERIALS UNIT" were printed in large, white italic letters on the side. There were still a bunch of firefighters left behind: three at the table in the middle of the card game, three who were conversing near the SUV parked in back, and an additional three who were cleaning the decontamination truck with rags.

As the noise of sirens faded, we turned to the three firemen who were still sitting at the card table by the Hazmat truck.

"Excuse me, where's Matthew McQuinn?" Adrian asked them.

"He's probably back there," the Hispanic firefighter pointed to right behind the truck for Rescue Squad 3.

Adrian, Natalie and I walked over towards Rescue Squad 3. As we walked over, I noticed an empty dog's bed basket sitting on the ground next to the truck's cab doors.

"There's a stain," Natalie said, pointing to a discolored spot on the floor not too far from the basket.

"Looks like dog's blood," Adrian said, "It's probably from the guard dog."

There were a couple firefighters standing behind the heavy rescue unit, engaged in conversation.

"Excuse me!" Adrian said. "Which one of you is Matthew McQuinn?"

"Me," McQuinn raised his hand and stepped forward.

Now, I know I already described Danielle's intimate encounter with McQuinn the night before, but I did not describe McQuinn's physical appearance, because I didn't know what he looked like until Adrian, Natalie and I saw him that morning. McQuinn was about six foot tall, about two inches taller than Adrian, with a head of short brown hair. McQuinn was in his mid-thirties, with brunette hair. He had a nice affable smile on his face. He had round cheeks that softened his natural brawniness (he was heavyset and appeared to be about 200 pounds), and would make him seem strong and cuddly to a woman instead of muscular and tough like boxers' hands. Again, since I never was going to have an intimate relationship with this guy, I am just giving you my non-objective description of him. His arms were bulky enough that he could be a lumberjack strong enough to snap a tree with his fists or a single swing from an axe, or keep a woman snug and warm against his chest. He kinda looked like Kristoff from Frozen if Kristoff was a firefighter instead of an ice harvester. He probably was as much of a womanizer as James Bond, but I honestly can't tell you if that was true because, well, I'm a married woman, and two, because of events that I will soon describe to you.

"Are you the guys Danielle sent?" McQuinn asked.

Adrian, Natalie and I looked at each other.

"Yes, indeed, we are," Adrian said.

"Can you guys see all right? What's with the sunglasses?" asked one of the firefighters McQuinn had been talking to.

"You've got to be sweating in that coat of yours," another firefighter said, gesturing towards Natalie, "It's like, 89 degrees out there."

"I'm fine," Natalie said, "We actually need to have a few minutes alone with Mr. McQuinn here."

"Do you mind if we talk away from your fellow crewmen?" Adrian asked, gesturing to the group of firefighters McQuinn had been conversing with.

"Sure," McQuinn said.

We followed him along the side of the rescue truck to the dog basket.

"I assume that Danielle told you everything about what happened here?" McQuinn asked.

"Yes," Adrian said. "Someone broke in here last Wednesday night, shot your dog, and stole some equipment."

"And you apparently also want someone to help you recover your missing tools," I added, almost as an afterthought, "But mostly, the dog's death. It's a real shame what happened to the dog."

McQuinn gave a small sigh. He sounded sorrowful as he resumed speaking.

"So, you must really like animals, ma'am?" McQuinn asked.

"Yeah," I said, "I know people who own pets get really sentimental when they die."

"Not to us, though," Adrian said.

"Boss, we don't own any dogs or cats," Natalie said.

"I know that. I was being wry."

"So how long did you and Sparky know each other?" I asked.

"I rescued Sparky from a pound about three years ago," McQuinn said. "We've been inseparable ever since. And of course, he was close to rest of us. To the point that really, we feel like we lost one of our own comrades on Wednesday night. In fact, we kinda think we're going to have him buried with honors."

"I'm sorry," Adrian said.

My attention turned to the bloodstain on the floor near Sparky's dog basket.

"So, what exactly do you three want to know?" McQuinn asked.

"I guess we might ask if there's anyone who would want to hurt your dog," Natalie said.

McQuinn's face tightened. He grimaced.

"Not that I know of, miss. No, wait, actually, I take that back: a few days before Sparky was killed, a guy named Nick Slade came by here. He lives in an apartment across the street."

"And what did this guy have against the dog?" Adrian asked.

"Love," McQuinn said, "Apparently he claimed Sparky was smitten with his Australian Shepherd."

"And I assume this guy Mr. Slade did not approve of the relationship?" Natalie asked.

"Not at all," McQuinn shook his head, "Not at all. He threatened to kill Sparky if he ever caught the Dalmatian in his yard."

"And nobody else?" I asked.

"Nope," McQuinn shook his head, "Sp-Sparky was one smart, sweet, trusting dog. We could take him to the cancer ward down at the children's hospital, or to the patients in the wards down at SF General, and he was good with people both young and old, even the tiny and the frail. Everybody loved him."

"Well, somebody clearly didn't," Adrian said, "Somebody who hated him enough that they shot him excessively, am I right?"

"So it seem," McQuinn said.

"So," Adrian said, rubbing his hands eagerly, "When was the last time you saw Sparky alive?" Adrian asked.

"Thursday morning around 1:30 a.m.," McQuinn said, "There was a big fire at a gas station down on Geary Boulevard."

"I think I remember reading about that," I said, "Wasn't an attendant killed?"

"Yeah, that's right. It took us five hours to get the blaze under control ," McQuinn said, "We got our units back here around daybreak, and we knew something was wrong when we were backing our trucks into the garage, because Sparky usually runs out and greets us when we are climbing off the trucks and putting all of our stuff away. And he's usually pretty happy about it, since he's wagging his tail…."

He sighed.

"Sir, it's all right," Natalie said, "We will find this guy."

"He'd been shot all over," McQuinn said, "Most gruesome thing I'd seen. We rushed him to a vet, but there was nothing we could do."

Adrian glanced at the street, and then back at the dog basket, then back at McQuinn.

"Was there any evidence of burglary?" Adrian asked. "I mean, weren't several rescue tools stolen?"

"Yeah, that's true," McQuinn said, "One of our hydraulic smaller cutters and a lightweight power unit was also missing."

"Oh," Adrian said.

"Was it unusual to leave the doors open and the dog all alone?" I asked.

"Not at all," McQuinn said, "See, that's one of the reasons that fire departments, historically, have used Dalmatians. They are guard dogs. That's just one of many facts you pick up when you are a dog-lover like me."

"And has anyone ever stolen anything from here before?" I asked.

"Never before, and certainly not last night," he answered.

Adrian mulled over that for a few moments and stared at McQuinn.

"I see," Adrian said, "Ladies, let's take a look."

We stepped away from McQuinn and walked over to the dog's basket. Adrian held out his hands and did his Zen thing. I smiled, mesmerized as always. He leaned down, and examined the dog basket. Natalie and I did our best to copy Adrian. I noticed a rubber hot dog chew toy still in the basket. I leaned down and picked it up. I grinned.

"Yo, Adrian!" I said, "Fetch!" I tossed it at Adrian, who instinctively dodged it. The chew toy landed harmlessly on the floor near McQuinn's feet.

The three of us laughed. Adrian walked around the basket and analyzed the scene for what must have been about two more minutes.

"Got anything?" Natalie asked when he straightened up.

"Yes," Adrian replied, "I think I have an idea of what happened here."

"Really?" I asked.

"Obviously, he was shot right here," Adrian said, pointing to the stain that Natalie had observed minutes earlier when we first arrived, "This was probably his favorite place to lounge around whenever the crews and the trucks were gone."

"How do you figure that?" Natalie asked.

"Well, the Rescue Squad unit doesn't always get sent out with the other crews," he said, "Some incidents don't require their special skills. But there are these scratch marks right here."

He pointed to some light scratches on the rescue truck just in front of the tire well and below the fire department seal. I squinted to glance at them through my sunglasses. They looked vaguely like claw marks. I reckoned that Sparky may have made them when he was stretching, rolling over, or just plain happy.

"Now, when Engine 10 and Truck 10 are both gone," Adrian said, "Sparky got a good view of the garage doors. But at the same time, when the trucks are parked, he would still enjoy the amount of foot traffic going through here."

Adrian cocked his head, looked around the garage, and took two steps forward, around the side of the basket, like he was placing his feet in a set of footprint casts.

"The intruder snuck in, probably through the front doors," he said, "He or she probably thought Sparky was sleeping. He also knew that the Dalmatian is a very rough breed. He probably had a pistol in hand and was intent on killing the dog."

He whirled around, looking at a rack of axes, shovels, and rakes on the back wall behind the rescue truck.

"However, the dog must have been woken up," Adrian continued, now stepping right up to the dog basket, "And, detecting the intruder, it charged him or her. Whoever it was, there must have been a struggle, and they shot him right here." He pointed to the dried blood stain on the floor.

"What kind of gun was used, Natalie?" I asked.

Natalie flipped through the case file to the ballistics report. ".38 ACP shell casings were found."

"That's not O'Donnell's weapon of choice," I said, "His is a Glock 17, which is a 9mm."

"Was, Kendra," Adrian said, "He's changed to a Beretta, remember? Although it's still a 9mm."

"O'Donnell could still have been here," Natalie said, "Just not as the one who pulled the trigger."

"So why kill the dog instead of tranquilize it?" I asked.

"Maybe Sparky was one of those dogs that bark when he detects a known bad guy in his presence," Adrian said, "Or he was afraid the dog would remember him."

"That makes a lot of sense," I said.

"I think we need to look at those cutting tools that were stolen," Adrian said.

We walked over to McQuinn.

"Mr. McQuinn," Adrian said, "Could you show us an example of the particular tool that was stolen?"

"Sure," McQuinn said. He led us over to what looked like a giant bolt cutter sitting on the floor behind the Rescue Squad 3 truck. "We use this tool when we need to extricate someone from a tight space. Sees most of its use in rollover accidents and building collapses."

"What sort of steel is that?" Adrian asked, pointing to the blades.

"Heat-treated steel on aluminum alloy," McQuinn said, "Cuts through just about anything. It's like the Swiss Army Knife of cutting tools. However, it's not just a cutter, it's also a spreader."

"Which means?" I asked.

"Alternately, we can close the blades, jam this into a tight spot, and instead of cutting, we can spread an object apart or lift it off a person long enough to extricate them," McQuinn said.

"We're interested in the power unit," Adrian said. McQuinn motioned to a tool that looked sort of like an outboard motor missing its propellers. It fit into a square iron frame, with the bottom two bars being the feet for the unit.

"I see," Adrian said.

"The one that was stolen was like this one, just smaller," McQuinn continued, "It's a 2.5 horsepower four-stroke engine."

I nodded, as did Natalie, as if those stats meant anything.

"What sort of fuel does it take?" Natalie asked.

"The same as most car engines," McQuinn said, "Gasoline."

I felt a jolt go through my body. And I saw a similar jolt go through Natalie's and Adrian's bodies as something tugged at my brain.

Adrian squatted beside the motor to examine the feet. "So, could one person carry the power unit and the cutter at the same time?"
"Absolutely," McQuinn said, "It weighs only forty pounds."

Adrian rolled his shoulders and tilted his head from side to side. Obviously, a new clue had come into his brain and he was trying to process it.

"And how much pressure does it exert on an object?" he asked.

"Depends on the size of the tool," McQuinn said, "I'd say that the one that was stolen probably had a maximum cutting force of about eighteen thousand pounds per square inch."

Adrian glanced at me. I glanced back at him. Then I glanced at Natalie. In that moment, I could tell what was going through his mind, her mind, and my mind: why we'd smelled gasoline in Martha Jansen's apartment, what had made those scrape marks on the bathroom floor, and how the individual sent by O'Donnell to dispose of her had mimicked an alligator bite.

"So, after robbing the armored car, O'Donnell and some of his men drive over to this part of the city and torch a gas station to lure the firefighters away long enough for one of his cronies to steal a cutter and power unit," I said.

"It looks like it. Whoever it was, he or she then glued alligator jaws to the blades," Adrian said, "Then the following night, a crony broke into Martha's loft, and knocked her out. He stripped her naked, tossed her into the bathtub, and filled it with table salt. Then he brought the jaws in and clamped them down on her. She struggled, and the power unit was dragged as result, streaking the floor."

"Sounds a little messy," Natalie said.

"And then the culprit loaded the body into his car and dumped it at the beach," Adrian said.

"So who would be ruthless enough to try that?" I asked.

That was when we heard a muffled popping sound. No wait, multiple popping sounds. I knew that sound. It was the sound I'd been subjected to a lot of the day before: the distinct sound of gunfire.

Adrian, Natalie and I did what we were trained to do when we heard gunfire: we drew out our pistols. The strange thing is that it didn't seem like any of the other firefighters heard the noise, but I guess that cops have better hearing than anyone else. It certainly felt like that today.

"What the hell are you doing?" a passing firefighter asked.

Adrian held up his right hand and gestured towards the opposite side of the heavy rescue truck from Sparky's basket.

The group of firefighters standing there took the hint – that Adrian wanted them to take cover behind the truck, out of sight from any potential intruders – and scattered.

Adrian, Natalie and I moved behind the back bumper of the heavy rescue truck and waited, pistols drawn. About 25 seconds later, a group of three electricians entered the garage from the back, where the spare battalion SUV was parked. It took me just a moment to process what I was seeing: the electricians were wearing Davenport Gas & Electric uniforms, hard hats, and sunglasses. One of them was carrying a pistol in his right hand and had what appeared to be a Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine gun slung across his body from the shoulder. And I recognized the pistol: it was the new one that we'd seen in Douglas O'Donnell's possession at the restaurant the day before. There was no doubt in mind: the electrician we were looking at was O'Donnell. The guy to his left, I suddenly realized, was Edward O'Brien. I'd recognize his sideburns anywhere, and he was also holding a knife and an MP5K. And the third guy was Dennis Donoghue. And he too, was carrying an MP5K on him and at least two pistols. I immediately felt my cheeks flash with rage.

"Oh, hell!" Adrian said to me and Natalie.

There were two firefighters standing in front of O'Donnell, Donoghue, and O'Brien, one a man, and one a woman. The woman had her back to the entering gunmen and didn't realize something was up until she saw her friend's eyes widen.

"What, Alex?" she asked. Suddenly, O'Brien grabbed her from behind by the hair with one hand and pulled her head back, hard, exposing her neck. She only had enough time to gasp in shock from her hair being grabbed before O'Brien took the knife in his other hand and slashed her throat. Blood spurted like a sprinkler as her jugular vein was sliced open, and she fell to the ground, dead.

"What the-" the male firefighter started to say, but a split second after O'Brien slit the female firefighter's throat, and while her body was still falling to the floor, O'Donnell raised his pistol, aimed it at the male guy's forehead, and fired once. The bullet hit the firefighter right between the eyes. He fell backwards, also dead.

The sound of the shot was audible to anyone in the garage.

"Damn it!" I said to myself.

.

O'Brien and Donoghue promptly raised their submachine guns and fired bursts at the ceiling. The gunmen then leveled bursts both in the direction of the street and towards the back of the garage.

The firefighters in the garage dove for cover at the sound for shots. Some weren't lucky. The three sitting at the card table next to the Hazmat truck froze up like deer in the headlights. Donoghue promptly leveled his submachine gun at them and sprayed a burst of bullets in their direction. All three fell dead before they could have had a chance to scream. O'Donnell fired his pistol once into the air, and then Donoghue fired another lengthy burst at the ceiling. They marched into the middle of the firehouse, training their guns at any visible firefighters that they could see. There was McQuinn, who had been standing just a few feet away from us when the first shots were fired, plus three guys who were standing near the cab of Rescue Squad 3, and three other firefighters who were lying on the ground near the back doors to Light Rescues Unit 9. We were crouching behind the truck's back bumper, pistols drawn.

"Damn it!" Natalie said.

"Everybody on the floor, now!" O'Brien shouted at the firefighters lying on the ground near the rescue truck.

"Nobody move!" O'Donnell shouted, training a pistol at McQuinn. Donoghue and O'Brien trained their submachine guns at the firefighters nearest to them.

Adrian, Natalie and I peeked out from behind the rescue truck. We could see that O'Donnell, O'Brien and Donoghue weren't alone. Three other men, also dressed like electricians, had entered while O'Donnell was shooting up the place. These guys had submachine guns and they also were carrying toolcases. Although we were about 30 feet away, my eagle eye told me that the black one with the submachine gun was Bobby Murdoch. I didn't know the other twos' identities, but one of them had a submachine gun and looked like he was probably Japanese. The other appeared to be a Hispanic with big scar on the right side of his face and was carrying a shotgun, though he also had an MP5K slung across his chest. In my head, I made a mental note that the guy with the scar was known as 'Scarface', and the Japanese henchman was 'Watanabe'. That probably wasn't his actual name, but I needed one so I could keep count of everyone's movements and recap them to you.

Satisfied with what he was seeing, O'Donnell picked up the radio clipped to his belt and spoke into it, "Tommy, Lizelle, bring the vans."

McQuinn was the only visible firefighter in the garage who was defiant enough to stay standing. I saw 'Scarface' took up a position by the back of the rescue engine. O'Donnell, Watanabe and O'Brien walked up to McQuinn, O'Donnell training his pistol at his head.

"There's nothing you can steal here!" McQuinn said.

O'Donnell immediately struck McQuinn across the head with the barrel of his pistol. McQuinn yelped and fell to the ground, bleeding heavily from his scalp. O'Donnell then kicked him in the stomach.

I saw a look of disgust on Natalie's face.

"Oh my god!" she said.

"Get up!" O'Donnell said. "Against the truck!"

"Come on, pal," O'Brien said.

O'Donnell pulled McQuinn to his feet, and jammed the barrel of his pistol into McQuinn's back. He, Watanabe, and O'Brien then marched him over to the side of the rescue engine at gunpoint. Once there, O'Donnell spun McQuinn and slammed him up with his back against the truck. O'Brien walked over to join him.

"Round up those guys," O'Donnell said, pointing to both visible groups of firefighters – the three who were crouching in front of Rescue Squad 3's cab and the three between Light Rescues Unit 9 and the Hazmat truck.

O'Brien collared the three firefighters in front of the rescue truck and marched them over to the other truck, and lined them up to McQuinn's left. Watanabe and Scarface, meanwhile, collared the firefighters behind Light Rescues Unit 9, and lined these guys up alongside McQuinn and the other three firefighters.

A moment later, I saw a pair of vans enter the firehouse through the open door for Engine 10's berth. In spite of the tight space, the two vans proceeded to make a very tight counterclockwise U-turn so that they were lined up, parked diagonally, to block the view from the street. Not only that, but it also allowed me to observe the giant Davenport Gas & Electric logos on both vans. It's two of the vans stolen in that break-in last night, I thought. I looked at Natalie and saw that she was scowling.

"Oh, hell," Natalie said, "I'm gonna kill him."

.

Watanabe, Murdoch and Scarface walked to the back doors of Light Rescues Unit 9. Murdoch set down his tool case and pulled something out of it.

"What is that?" Natalie whispered.

Adrian narrowed his eyes. "Looks like some sort of shape charge or something."

"What do we do?" I whispered. "Do we take them out?"

"We do nothing, Kendra," Adrian whispered back.

"Well we have to do something!" I hissed in a low whisper.

"No," Adrian said, "If we step out guns drawn, they'll execute us like they're going to do to that group there."

"I'm sorry, execute?!" Natalie asked, startled. "And we're supposed to just sit here and hide while he kills people?!"

"Yes," Adrian said, "Natalie, he knows who we are. We escaped from him yesterday so he probably wants us dead."

As Adrian, Natalie and I watched, Murdoch fastened the explosive charges to both back doors of the rescue engine. He and Donoghue then moved back about twelve feet.

"What are they doing?" Natalie asked.

"Fire in the hole!" Murdoch shouted.

O'Donnell and his other men nodded their heads in acknowledgement.

Murdoch pulled out what looked like a detonator and mashed the button with his thumb.

Instantly, there was a small explosion. There was a brief, half-second flash of orange flame and a loud bang, followed by a large cloud of smoke. The three of us instinctively flinched at the sharp sound made by the audible bang of the mini-explosion. I saw Natalie grip the handle on her pistol a little bit more tightly. When the smoke cleared about five seconds later, there was a small square-shaped hole in the metal where the lock used to be. Murdoch, Watanabe, Scarface, and Donoghue stepped forward and pried the doors open.

"We're in business!" Watanabe said.

Donoghue leveled his submachine gun and aimed it into the truck. Murdoch and Watanabe grabbed cloth duffel bags from their tool cases, and a moment later, they climbed into the back of the truck.

I looked to Adrian for advice. He gestured with his head. "Keep quiet!"

A moment later, Murdoch and Watanabe emerged from the back of the rescue truck, carrying a duffel bag full of equipment. I caught a glimpse of what looked suspiciously like firefighting gear: yellow and black coats, pants, helmets, oxygen tanks and gas masks.

"They're robbing the truck for disguises," Natalie said, disgusted.

I could feel my anger rushing to my cheeks.

"Kendra, your whole face is turning red," Natalie said, cautiously.

I glared at her and gritted my teeth.

"I'm going to kill them," I said.

As we said that, Murdoch and Watanabe hauled the duffel bag over to the first van and tossed it through the open side sliding door.

Over the next three minutes, Murdoch and Watanabe, now being assisted by Donoghue and Scarface, made two more trips back into the Light Rescues truck, to grab more gear. It looked to me like they weren't just taking firefighting gear, but also tools like axes, saws, and a couple of giant bolt cutters like the tool we now suspected was used to kill Martha Jansen, and what looked like cutting torches. Each duffel bag was then thrown into the back of the first van. While this was going on, O'Brien and O'Donnell had their guns trained on the row of seven firefighters they'd taken captive. O'Brien had his submachine gun drawn and O'Donnell had his pistol drawn.

Once the last batch of loot was loaded, Donoghue and Watanabe shut the back doors of the van.

"Finished!" Donoghue said.

"Good," O'Donnell said. He turned to the firefighters and walked over to the one farthest from McQuinn.

"Now then, what do we do about you bunch of potato heads?" O'Donnell said.

"They've seen our faces, boss," O'Brien said.

O'Donnell promptly produced his pistol and put it directly to the head of the firefighter furthest to his right, farthest away from McQuinn.

My cheeks were burning hot with uncontrolled rage. I clenched my teeth together very tightly.

"You have got to be kidding me!" I said through my clenched teeth.

I thought I could see beads of sweat forming on the firefighter's brow. He clearly knew O'Donnell was about to shoot him.

Seconds later, it happened. O'Donnell promptly pulled the trigger and shot the firefighter in the face. With a loud bang, the man fell to the ground, dead, a very bloody bullet hole between the eyes. Blood and brain matter splattered against the side of the truck directly behind him. Adrian, Natalie and I cautiously backed away. As the first firefighter fell, the guy immediately to his right reached into his pocket and whipped out a pistol. O'Brien turned his submachine gun on that firefighter, and both he and Murdoch fired upon the middle group. A deafening roar of gunfire echoed through the garage. Instinctively, the three of us tried to back up further against the bumper of the truck, but we were as backed up against the bumper as we could possibly get.

The middle group of five firefighters jerked like marionettes as multiple bullets ripped through their torsos and legs. They stumbled back against the side of the engine. Then O'Brien fired another burst into the gun-carrying firefighter as he slid to the ground, just for good measure. There was no denying that all of these men were deader than dead.

I snarled in O'Donnell's direction.

"Oh, Jesus," Natalie said, sounding disgusted.

As O'Brien ceased shooting, O'Donnell turned to the other members of his gang. There was silence. Adrian grabbed me by the waist and pulled me closer to him. Natalie looked wide-eyed and disgusted.

Of the seven firefighters that O'Donnell had lined up, now Matthew McQuinn was the only one left still standing. As we watched, O'Donnell slowly walked over to McQuinn, pistol raised. The only noise we heard that broke this silence, besides the ringing of the shots in my ears, was as a diesel Muni bus drove past.

As the bus passed by, O'Donnell raised his pistol and fired twice at McQuinn's stomach. Both bullets hit McQuinn in the chest and he staggered backwards against the side of the Hazmat truck. As he did, O'Donnell fired again, this time hitting him in the neck. McQuinn was spun around by this wound and collapsed, landing on his stomach.

"Now Underwood's going to be stuck here for a while," O'Donnell said, holstering his pistol. "Let's move out."

He gave a hand signal to the driver of the first van that seemed to indicate "You can leave". Adrian, Natalie and I watched as the first van, the van carrying the loot, completed its U-turn. The van immediately pulled out of the garage. I could hear the sound of tires screeching and a horn blaring as it cut across traffic and made a left turn to head north on Presidio.

O'Donnell and his five other men were now about to start walking back towards the other van so they could leave, but then they heard the same thing we heard: gargling, and it was coming from McQuinn.

"He's alive!" I exclaimed. We could see that McQuinn hadn't quite been killed by the three bullets that O'Donnell had just put into him. Clutching his left hand to the bloody bullet hole in his neck, he started crawling on his stomach in our direction. He was leaving a long trail of blood across the floor.

"Oh, no," Adrian whispered, "What's he thinking?!"

Sure enough, O'Donnell made some sort of gesture to Watanabe and O'Brien. The three of them walked over to McQuinn, who'd managed to make it about seven feet from the spot where O'Donnell had first shot him. Watanabe, cradling his submachine gun in his hands, put his foot on top of McQuinn's left foot, which, in McQuinn's weakened condition, was enough to immobilize him. McQuinn twisted his upper body around, still clutching his bleeding neck, so that he could face O'Donnell. He held up his right hand towards O'Donnell and tried to say something, despite the fact that his vocal cords had been damaged. I could tell that he appeared to be trying to beg for his life, like, "Hey please, Mr. Terrorist, don't shoot me! Led me bleed out in peace!"

O'Donnell appeared unmoved. He drew his pistol and leveled it now at McQuinn's head. A split second later, he fired the weapon. With a loud bang, blood and brain matter splattered everywhere and McQuinn's arms and legs went limp. Now the guy was absolutely positively dead.

It isn't easy watching violence, pain, and bloodshed on any day of the week. The facial expression frozen on McQuinn after O'Donnell shot him in the face was that of a man who realized there was no chance of escaping a very painful death. When you see something like that, all too often you can't help but imagine yourself in the same situation and imagine what it might feel like. But Adrian, Natalie and I weren't like that. We'd had dozens of situations where people were killed in front of us, and each time, the feeling I had was one of outright rage. And I instantly knew that Danielle was probably not going to be happy being told that Douglas O'Donnell had just murdered her lover in cold blood.

Natalie gripped her pistol tightly. Adrian and I also gripped our own pistols tightly, to the point that I was certain I was leaving grip shaped marks on my fingers. Adrian, Natalie and I stood up and we broke cover. We didn't even bother to identify ourselves. I just opened fire on the henchman standing next to O'Donnell, in this case, Watanabe.

The angry expression on my face was the last thing Watanabe saw in that final split-second. He was hit in the chest and fell instantly.

Immediately, O'Brien raised his submachine gun and fired a burst in our direction. We ducked back behind the rescue truck.

I only now noticed that I was breathing pretty heavily. I glanced a look at Adrian and then at Natalie. Both of them looked dazed.

"Jeez!" I said, breathing heavily.

"Are you okay?" Adrian asked, clearing his throat, and slowly getting back up to his feet. "Come on, we've got to get them."

I stood up again, adrenaline surging through my blood as I let my anger take control of me. We broke cover again. Now Donoghue and Scarface raised their guns and fired. I dropped to my stomach, dodging both bursts, and proceeded to fire four rounds in quick succession. O'Donnell, Donoghue, and O'Brien immediately returned fire with their submachine guns. Adrian and Natalie also fired several rounds.

Natalie fired another sixteen full rounds, which was the equivalent of the rest of a magazine. Then she ducked back behind the truck to reload, as additional bullets pounded the truck, a support column, the back wall, and everything else in sight. I myself fired away at the men, until my magazine clip clicked empty.

"I'm out! Cover me!" I said to Adrian. Adrian stepped in front of me and fired his pistol towards O'Donnell and O'Brien as I curled up into a ball behind the truck, where Natalie had just finished reloading. I ejected my current magazine. Then I reached into my jacket pocket, and inserted a new magazine. Then I jumped up next to Adrian and fired back.

Adrian was firing strategically, firing off several more rounds.

"Oh, these guys are good," Adrian said.

O'Donnell and his men now fired another volley in our direction. We ducked back behind the truck to join Natalie. Adrian proceeded to reload his pistol.

"This is the most exciting birthday I've had in years," I said.

"You think?" Adrian said.

Another automatic burst pounded the side of the heavy rescue truck. It seemed to go on forever.

A moment later, I saw the face of one of O'Donnell's men come into view. All three of us raised our pistols and fired in that general direction. The henchman ducked out of sight, managing to avoid all of the bullets, which instead hit the hazmat truck just above the bodies of the executed firefighters.

We now popped out and fired again on the gunmen, who were headed towards the second van. A few of our bullets appeared to hit the van or shatter its windows. Donoghue and Murdoch rushed over to the driver's door of the rescue truck cab and fired in our direction. Adrian, Natalie and I shot back at them, one of our rounds shattering the truck's side mirror. This continued until I fired a round that I think struck just barely grazed Murdoch's shoulder. Merely a moment later, another bullet hit the rescue truck just inches from my head. O'Donnell emerged from cover behind the cab of the Hazmat truck and fired on us with his pistol. Adrian and I raised our pistols and fired at him, intending to drive him back. This did not do anything to deter him.

"Let's move a little further back!" Adrian said to me and Natalie. O'Donnell, O'Brien, Murdoch and Donoghue fired again as Adrian, Natalie and I fired back. We were forced to retreat behind the rescue truck again. After a couple of bursts of gunfire hit the truck, some of which popped the rear tire on the truck, Natalie and I broke cover and fired four rounds apiece at Murdoch and O'Donnell. Murdoch and O'Donnell were 'kind' enough to force us back behind cover.

"Geez," Natalie said.

O'Donnell broke cover and strode towards us, firing his pistol in the direction of our hiding spot until his pistol clicked empty. That was when we could hear the faint noise of police sirens.

"Come on, let's go!" he shouted to his men.

"This is your opportunity," Adrian said to me and Natalie.

Adrian, Natalie and I promptly jumped out from behind cover. We saw that the henchman known as Scarface was now close enough that we could both take him out easily. Each of us fired the remaining rounds in our clips at him. Seven of them struck Scarface, and he fell to the ground just feet from where Watanabe's and McQuinn's bodies were located, dropping his shotgun in the process.

O'Brien turned, raised his submachine gun, and emptied the rest of his magazine at Adrian, Natalie and me. We dropped back behind the rescue truck, bullets pounding the side of the truck. Once O'Brien's magazine ran out, O'Donnell grabbed him by the arm. The sirens were definitely getting louder.

"Let's go, Eddie!" O'Donnell said, "Cops are coming!"

Adrian turned to me and Natalie.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

I nodded, dazed.

"I've never been through anything like this," I said.

Adrian nodded. "Now you have."

"I can't believe this is happening," Natalie said.

This was the perfect opportunity for us to break cover. Having just reloaded our pistols, Adrian, Natalie and I stepped out to see that O'Donnell and O'Brien were standing by the side door of the van, armed with their submachine guns. A moment later, a pair of black-and-white SFPD cruisers came speeding along the street from the south, responding code 3.

Adrian cringed.

"They're going to be ambushed!" I said.

The lead police car screeched to a halt with its front bumper up against the van's front bumper. The other unit parked right behind it. Because of the angle at which their units were stopped, they obviously couldn't see O'Donnell and gang lying in wait to ambush them. Just as the first police car was coming to a stop, the gang opened fire.

"Ladies!" Adrian said to me and Natalie. All three of us reloaded our pistols and began shooting in the direction of the gang. Donoghue turned and fired his submachine gun in our direction. All of his rounds missed, instead flying past us and back into the firehouse. A few of his bullets struck the side of the Hazmat truck.

As for the officers, the moment they came to a stop and came under fire from the gang, they got out and begun shooting back. Both cops in the first unit launched an exchange of fire with O'Donnell and O'Brien that lasted about twelve seconds. The driver managed to squeeze off nine rounds with his pistol at O'Donnell and O'Brien before he suddenly fell, hit in the legs. His partner quickly sought cover inside the cruiser.

"Oh, my god!" I gasped. We looked at the officer who had just been shot. The bullet appeared to have punctured his shoulder. He was still alive and breathing, although he was definitely bleeding intensively.

The moment the gang's magazines ran out, they hustled into the back of the van and shut the door behind them. A moment later, the van driver floored on the gas pedal and started to push the two police cars in front of it out of the way. The officer who'd just been capped in the legs narrowly was able to get clear of his unit's wheels in time. I raised my pistol and emptied the rest of my current magazine at the van. I wasn't sure that I'd scored any hits on any gang members, but I felt it was worth it.

"Now what do we do?" I asked after I reloaded.

"Shoot the tires!" Adrian replied. We ran in the direction of the van, getting to it just as the driver managed to free it from the blockade. Now free of police vehicles, it took off.

"Get him!" I heard the kneecapped cop say.

Adrian, Natalie and I took off running along the sidewalk towards the corner of Pine Street, hoping to catch the van. As we ran, trying not to run out of breath, someone fired a machine gun volley in our direction through the rear windows, which shattered. Adrian, Natalie and I fired our pistols back at the van, as bullets hit the ground at our feet. I felt even more determined and enraged, like General Patton.

"We might be able to get them at the corner," Adrian said to us as we ran.

Just as we reached the corner of Presidio and Pine, the van swerved to avoid a crossing Muni bus. The driver blared on his horn. As soon as the bus cleared the street, I stepped out into the street, aimed my pistol, drew a bead, and shot the left rear tire of the van. With a pop, the tire burst.

"GOT YA!" I said, excitedly.

Natalie fired as well, shooting the right rear tire.

"That's two of four!" she said.

With two of the four tires out, the driver struggled to keep control of the van. Adrian, Natalie and I ran out into the middle of the street, and released a barrage of gunfire on the van, riddling the back doors with bullets. Whether or not they went through and hit anything was unclear. Eventually, the van crashed into the back of an Acura sedan stopped a half-block south of California Street. The hood of the car was demolished. At the sound of gunfire coming from down the block, motorists had stopped their cars and abandoned them, and several pedestrians dove for cover. As the getaway van was crashing, a group of three SFPD cruisers and one San Francisco Sheriff's Department unit screeched to a stop in the intersection behind us, and their officers jumped out with shotguns and pistols in hand.

"Get ready, ladies," Adrian said to me. We reloaded our pistols.

"Oh this is going to be exciting," I said.

I don't know why, but as angry as I felt, I also seemed unusually turned on now by the fighting. I glanced at Natalie. She looked seething mad as she loaded up.

"Come to me," she said, clenching her teeth.

O'Donnell and his stooges jumped out of the van's back doors. They turned back at us and started firing their submachine guns. Adrian, Natalie and I promptly began shooting our pistols towards them. This was going to be the most intense shootout to date that I'd been in.

"Sometimes I hate this job," Natalie said between rounds.

"Well you're stuck here," Adrian said.

"Let's not banter while shooting," I said, as I finished off another magazine. I quickly ejected it and reloaded.

Adrian, Natalie and I fired at the robbers from the middle of the street, spreading a base to keep them pinned down, and ducking down behind the engine blocks of abandoned cars for use as cover.

"This is worse than North Hollywood," I commented as I opened up.

One patrol officer, equipped with a shotgun and positioned behind the just-arrived police cars that were stopped in the middle of the intersection, ran forward and fired at Murdoch. Murdoch fired back. The officer suddenly fell, hit in the shoulder, as bullets tore up the three stopped cruisers. I winced, glimpsing it. Another officer stopped firing his pistol long enough to pull him to safety. The other officer of this bunch to be equipped with a shotgun squeezed off multiple blasts before he went down. One pistol officer was shot by O'Donnell, probably in his arm, and tried firing his weapon with his other hand even while being pulled away by a colleague.

"Those guys just are not going to give up," Adrian said, as we ducked behind a Hyundai on the west side of the street to avoid a burst of fire from O'Brien.

"Looks like it," Natalie said, reloading.

"Shooting to kill day," I said, as I fired at O'Brien and Murdoch.

"They're always trying to pick us off," Adrian said to me, "Never thought they'd be this bent on killing us."

Natalie jumped up and fired three times. O'Donnell answered back with his pistol. As he turned and fired his pistol north, in the opposite direction, we advanced forward, and found ourselves next to a pickup truck right stopped next to the getaway van. Adrian and Natalie fired their pistols at O'Donnell and O'Brien. They had fired about seven shots when the van suddenly went up in a giant yellow-orange fireball.

The shockwave threw us off our feet, but the pickup truck shielded us from the direct force of the blast as bits of twisted and scorched metal flew through the air and landed around us. The heat was very intense, like someone was holding a blowtorch directly against my skin. The blast was strong enough to partially deform the truck and every car within ten feet.

"Jesus!" I said.

"What the hell?!" Natalie asked. Flaming debris crashed down around us.

"That was a bomb!" Adrian said.

Four seconds later, more shots rang out. Bullets hit the ground near my leg. It was O'Donnell, firing his submachine gun. My rage boiled over once again.

"GET HIM!" I screamed.

I jumped up and fired in O'Donnell's direction, and ducked down behind the pickup truck when he shot back. We waited until there was a lull in gunfire. On the next opportunity, Adrian, Natalie and I stood up, adrenaline in complete control, and fired again. Adrian fired off three rounds, while Natalie got off five and I got off about four. Donoghue fired a burst at a group of officers on the east side of the street, who had been trying to stealthily advance on the gang. Two of the officers were hit, and critically wounded, while the others were forced to take cover.

O'Donnell and his men fired a few more rounds, and then they moved north, getting closer to California Street. Adrian, Natalie and I followed, still determined to not let them get away. We reloaded and advanced forward to a Lexus LX SUV stopped diagonally on the west side of the street, now about fifty to sixty feet from the robbers. I alternated between giving additional firing support to Adrian and assistance to Natalie.

As we shot at O'Donnell and his crew, I also tried to observe the way the men were moving up the street. They were very well trained. It was as if three men would shoot firing bases at us that would allow the fourth man to advance north through the abandoned cars. There were no visible bystanders in sight, almost everyone having fled or taken cover, which made this feel like we were fighting in some kind of post-apocalyptic ghost town or a war zone. The only sound that I could hear was the deafening echoes of gunfire.

Adrian, Natalie and me, and O'Donnell and his crew, seemed like the only people around.

"Too many cars!" I said after popping out and firing off four rounds, then ducking back behind another SUV a little ways further up the street from the burning van, "How do we get through to them?"

"Let's move forward to that Honda," Adrian said. We fired at O'Donnell and his guys as we moved across the street to the cover of an abandoned Civic.

By this time, I had burned through at least eight magazines – four inside the firehouse, and four in the street fight. Natalie and Adrian had also burned through just as many magazines. Fortunately, we still had plenty of ammunition. We'd been engaged in this gun battle with O'Donnell for several minutes now, and part of me was wondering why none of these four men who had escaped the firehouse had yet to fall and die. If there was one way to describe O'Donnell and his men, it would be "un-killable."

But now O'Donnell and his men had made it to California Street, and were standing in the middle of the south crosswalk, all of them firing their submachine guns back at us.

"Let's get a little closer!" Adrian said to me and Natalie. Natalie and I advanced another car space. It was still too far for me to get perfect hits. Adrian advanced once we made it behind a red Lincoln sedan, and joined me. It was now time to reload our weapons.

"Adrian, do you have any ideas?! Because this is clearly FUBAR!" Natalie said.

"Where the hell is that backup?!" I asked.

"I have a few ideas," he said, cocking his pistol at the same time that I cocked mine. Suddenly, we heard the sound of automatic bullets raking the other side of the car. The engine block was the only thing keeping us from being pumped with lead.

"I'll show him who's better!" I said. I stood up, leveled my pistol across the roof of the car and fired four rounds at Donoghue. Donoghue staggered back, shocked and surprised, clutching his shoulder. I'd finally hit him.

O'Donnell, O'Brien and Murdoch finished the remainder of the newest set of magazines that they had loaded into their guns as they sprayed at the car we were using as cover. As they fired, Adrian pulled me to the pavement, out of the line of fire.

I scorched him a disgusted look.

"I had him!"

O'Donnell, O'Brien and Murdoch rushed over to Donoghue.

"Charlie!" O'Donnell said.

"The girl with the black hair nicked me!" he said.

"We'll patch it up later," O'Donnell said to Donoghue.

While they had been distracted, Adrian, Natalie and I had reloaded, and crawled over to a space behind a blue Ford Fusion two lanes over abandoned in the left turn lane. I jumped up and fired my reloaded pistol five times. Murdoch and O'Donnell turned and fired their weapons in our direction. We ducked behind the car. During a lull, the three of us were able to advance one car space. Then Murdoch turned and fired a burst that sent us scrambling for cover behind a Mercury Mariner stopped just in front of the Ford. O'Brien and Donoghue also fired finishing bursts, and car windows exploded into numerous tiny fragments of shattered glass.

"All right, let's keep moving!" O'Donnell said once O'Brien and Donoghue had finished these magazines, "Lizelle's waiting for us with the other van!"

We heard their footsteps hurrying away. Adrian, Natalie and I then stood up.

"I think they're gone," Adrian said.

We cautiously stood to our feet, and I took a look around me. Smoke billowed from the cracked engine blocks of bullet riddled cars. The getaway van was engulfed in flames. Pedestrians were cowering behind whatever source of cover they had available. Some were lying on the ground, bleeding from either bullet wounds or cuts induced by flying glass shards. Police and fire sirens echoed everywhere. And my blood was boiling with rage. If O'Donnell was asking for a war, I was going to give him one. Nobody shot at me and got away with it!

At that point, Natalie suddenly said, "Over there!"

I turned my head and saw the four robbers striding east on California Street towards the parking lot of a minimall, a couple of beauty and tattoo parlors and a Palmieri Pizza restaurant a half-block east of Presidio Boulevard.

"Let's go!" I said. "We can't let them get away with this!"

Natalie quickly dialed the police dispatcher on her speed dial.

"They're headed east on California on foot!" she said. "Send everything you've got!" She hung up, not even waiting to hear the dispatcher repeat back her words.

Pistols drawn, we sprinted down the north sidewalk towards the minimall. We arrived at the west entrance to the lot just as an unmarked unit roared into the lot and came to a stop, followed immediately by an SFPD black-and-white.

"They're going to get themselves killed!" I said.

Sure enough, O'Donnell and his men immediately opened fire on the unmarked unit, raking it with bullets. Adrian, Natalie and I saw two familiar faces jump out of the unmarked unit and begin shooting back: Lieutenant Disher and a fellow inspector, Inspector Jack Lansdale, both wielding their duty pistols. The two uniforms in the black-and-white scrambled out of their car through the driver's door and drew their pistols. O'Donnell and one of his men raised their submachine guns, and fired at the two detectives, sending them diving behind their car for cover. After a moment's lull, Disher popped up from behind the trunk and fired off two rounds at O'Donnell, both of which missed their marks and shattered car windows.

This was just as Adrian, Natalie and I reached the hood of the black-and-white and the two pinned down officers. O'Brien saw us coming and fired on us.

"Damn it!" Natalie said. She dove for cover behind the hood of the marked unit while Adrian and I took firing stances behind the hood of the car and fired a few rounds back at O'Brien. Just a few rounds were exchanged between the two of us, as it was then that my next clip ran out. Adrian and I now ducked down, using the engine block as a shield.

"And I have to run out of ammo right at a crucial moment!" I grumbled as I reloaded my pistol.

The two uniformed officers started to move, as if ready to fire.

"No clean shot," Adrian said to them.

Meanwhile, O'Donnell, Donoghue and Murdoch were engaging Lansdale and Disher's unit. Just as Adrian, Natalie and I finished inserting new clips into our guns, and as I finished racking the slide, I heard shots and a loud yell.

I looked over just in time to see two men fall to the ground, both of them clearly hit by gunfire: Disher and a Palmieri Pizza driver.

"Randy!" Lansdale said.

One of the uniformed officers crawled over to Disher to check on him. In my mind, I was thinking "Please don't be dead, please don't be dead!" Sure enough, a number of crimson stains were beginning to blossom from two fresh new bullet holes in his shirt.

"No, no! No!" I said, looking at Disher's wounds as O'Brien fired another burst in our direction.

"Get them!" Disher struggled to say to the officer who was attending to him.

Douglas O'Donnell and his gang had just critically wounded another cop. Now, I get really, really angry whenever I saw a person get killed in front of me or die in front of me. Actually, take that back. I get very, very, very, very, very, VERY, very angry whenever someone is brazen enough to harm a cop who works with my dad. In my mind, that's a sin that is punishable by instant death. And I'm also very good at hiding that anger behind a very pleasant smile.

I looked back at Adrian, who gave me a quick nod. I tightly gripped my pistol and poked my head up from behind the hood of the black-and-white, looking for an opening.

"I got this," I said.

O'Donnell, Murdoch and O'Brien fired another suppressive volley our way with their submachine guns. The moment O'Donnell lowered his weapon, I jumped up on both feet, pistol in hand, and fired five rounds in his direction. Just as quickly, O'Donnell ducked behind a car. The bullets missed and hit the car's windows, shattering it. One man hunched down behind a shopping cart three feet behind me flinched and covered his ears. I heard a little boy and girl scream.

I'll get you, you little creep, I thought. A couple of kids hunkering on the ground next to me and behind whatever source of cover was conveniently available to them covered their ears. I fired my pistol again. Bring it on, O'Donnell. What are you waiting for?!

If you looked at me, you wouldn't even think I was angry at O'Donnell. To the contrary, you'd think I was enjoying firing my weapon a little too much.

That was when O'Donnell and his men raised their submachine guns and opened fire, spraying at us. Adrian and Natalie broke cover as well and fired back on the gang. Natalie had a look of controlled and very concentrated rage on her face. More bullets pounded the police car and multiple bullets went through the store windows behind us. And Detective Lansdale and the two uniform cops tending to Disher had frozen up in fear, having just seen one of their own get shot.

Adrian, Natalie and I fired until our weapons clicked empty, at which point we ducked down behind the marked unit to reload. By now, I wasn't sure just how many rounds O'Donnell and his men had fired on the police since they entered the firehouse, but I figured it had to be somewhere in the thousands.

As I stood up, I saw O'Donnell and his guys climbing into the back of a Chevrolet van parked two aisles over. Seeing the Davenport Gas & Electric logo on the back doors, I immediately recognized it as the van that we'd seen the gang load their loot into minutes earlier at the firehouse. The moment the last robber had climbed in, and I couldn't tell you which robber it was because he had his back to me, the van rocketed backwards out of its parking space. It came to a stop. A split second later, the driver shifted gears and floored the gas pedal. With smoke coming from its tires as they burned rubber, the van took off towards the street.

No one shoots at me and gets away with it! I thought. I raised my pistol and emptied it at the van as it plowed through and swiped an incoming police car that was just coming to a stop. The cruiser spun around, its front end torn up, and its siren died off. The van then made a hard left onto California and sped off, untouched by two more police cars that were just coming to a stop by the east entrance to the parking lot.

I slowly returned my pistol to its holster. Don't think you're going to get away easily, O'Donnell, I thought. We will find you and we will kill you. The only other sound I could hear, besides the ringing of gunfire in my ears, was the ever persistent wail and blend of sirens, police department, ambulance, and fire engine alike, all over the area.

Natalie took a few moments to catch her breath before she stuck her pistol back in its holster. I took a chance to get a glance at her. She looked like she was sweating and almost out of breath. With all of that adrenaline being released from her body, it was a miracle she was even standing upright.

Remarkably composed, Natalie leaned into the patrol car and grabbed the on-board mike.

"12 Ingleside to dispatch, the suspects are headed eastbound on California," she said, "They are driving a Chevrolet Express van with Davenport Gas & Electric decals, license plate 4DSQ554."

I felt Adrian put his hand on my shoulder. I immediately turned to look into his eyes. We stared at each other for several seconds, as if we were enemies in a staredown. I suddenly noticed that my chest was heaving, filled with adrenaline from the intense gun battle, and with some new emotion that I shouldn't be feeling at this point. Clearly Adrian felt this same way, too. And then he pulled me in and kissed me hard on the mouth.

I clearly felt something. Like, I felt like it was a pretty bad time for my husband to be kissing me, as police officers, paramedics, and firefighters began pouring into the lot to render first aid to any wounded victims that they could find. At the same time, I was overly turned on by this much violence. Sure enough, I responded by pretty much attacking Adrian's mouth like I wanted to devour him whole.

"Kendra…." Adrian murmured as I began to plant my lips on his chin.

With some measure of self-control and awareness, Adrian caught my face and pulled it up so that we were facing eye-to-eye. I grinned at him.

"Adrian, we shouldn't be doing this," I said, "Not right now."

My gaze fell upon the bullet-riddled black-and-white unit and on the paramedics who were working to stabilize Disher.

"We'll pick up where we left off in the car when we're done here, Kendra," Adrian said, dryly, "Something tells me we're going to be here for a while."

A/N: This entire robbery sequence is like a blend of multiple armed robberies from different movies. Parts of it are taken from the episode "Mr. Monk Can't See a Thing," the stock exchange robbery from The Dark Knight Rises, and most notably, both robbery sequences in Heat: the execution of the firefighters is similar to the execution of the guards in the armored car robbery, and the post-robbery shootout is like the bank robbery shootout. Liberties are taken to make sure, though, that it's entirely an original sequence.