Night Shield by Nora Roberts

pocket, pulled out keys. “We move in on all sides and go in the front. When we move, pull one of the radio cars across the driveway. Let’s block that route.”
    “Call it.”
    She lifted the walkie-talkie to establish positioning and give the orders. And all hell broke loose.
    Three gunshots blasted the air, the return fire slamming into the echoes. Even as Ally drew her own weapon, voices shouted through the walkie-talkies.
    “Dietz is down! Officer down! Shooter’s male, heading east on foot. Officer down!”
    Cops rushed the house. Ally hit the door first, went in low. Blood pounded in her ears as she swept the area with her weapon. Hickman took her back and at her signal headed up the stairs while she turned right.
    Someone was shouting. She heard it like a buzz in the brain. Lights flashed on.
    The house opened out like a fan. She brought the layout Barnes had described into her mind as she and the rest of the team spread out. At each doorway she led with eyes and weapon, following training while her breath came short and shallow.
    There was more gunfire from outside, muffled pops. She started to turn in that direction and saw the sliding door on what looked like a small solarium wasn’t quite shut.
    She caught a scent, very female, and following instinct turned away from the shouts and bolted for the door.
    She saw the woman, just the silhouette of her, running hard toward a line of ornamental trees. “Police! Stop where you are!”
    She would replay it a dozen times. The woman continued to run. Weapon drawn, Ally raced after her, calling out the warning, shouting her position and situation into her hand unit.
    She heard calls from behind her, running feet.
    They’d cut her off, Ally thought. Cut her off even before she reached the six-foot fence that closed in the property.
    Nowhere to go.
    She gained ground, caught both the scent of perfume and panic sweat the woman left on the air. Moonlight picked her out of the shadows, the swing of her dark hair, the stream of the short black cape.
    And when, on the run, the woman turned, the moonlight bounced off the chrome plating of the revolver in her hand.
    Ally saw her lift it, felt with a kind of detached shock the heat of the bullet that whined past her own head.
    “Drop your weapon! Drop it now!”
    And as the woman pivoted, and the gun jerked in her hand, Ally fired.
    Ally saw the woman stagger, heard the thud as the gun fell from her hand and heard a kind of sighing gasp. But what she would remember, what seemed to burn on her brain like acid on glass, was the dark stain that bloomed between the woman’s breasts even as she dropped.
    It was bone-deep training that had her rushing forward, stepping on the woman’s gun. “Suspect down,” she said into her hand unit as she crouched to check for a pulse. Her voice didn’t shake, and neither did she. Not yet.
    It was Hickman who got to her first. She heard his voice like something carried on the crest of a wave of churning water. Her head was full of sound, a rushing liquid sound.
    “Are you hit? Ally, are you hit?”
    His hands were already moving over her, tugging at her jacket to check for injury.
    “Call an ambulance.” Her lips were stiff. They felt wooden, splintered. She reached forward, crossing her hands over each other, pressing the heels of them on the woman’s chest.
    “On the way. Come on. Get up.”
    “She needs pressure on this wound. She needs an ambulance.”
    “Ally.” He holstered his own weapon. “You can’t do anything for her. She’s dead.”
    *  *  *
    She didn’t let herself be sick. She made herself stand and watch as the wounded officer and the woman’s partner were loaded into ambulances. She made herself watch when the woman was zipped into a thick black bag.
    “Detective Fletcher.”
    And she made herself turn, face her lieutenant. “Sir. Can you tell me Dietz’s condition?”
    “I’m on my way to the hospital. We’ll know more later.”
    She rubbed the back