Voss woke up cursing, wanting to throttle the paramedic who was putting pressure on her wound. The copper stink of her own blood filled her head and she stared at him, this handsome blond kid forcing his weight onto her shoulder to staunch the bleeding.

“That really hurts,” she rasped.

He smiled. “Pain means you’re alive.”

Smart-ass. But he turned to his partner and called for a needle full of something that sent a wave of blissful relief cascading through her in what seemed like seconds. They kept working, bandaging her, setting up a drip, and now that the pain had abated some, she saw that she was in the back of an ambulance, but it didn’t feel like they were moving.

“What’s going on?” she asked, licking her lips, which felt swollen, like she’d had Novocain or too much to drink.

The blond paramedic—the guy looked barely old enough to vote—shot her a worried look. “You were shot, Agent Voss. Do you remember?”

Her hand fluttered up, brushing the question away. “I got that part, junior. What happened to … McCandless?”

Motion at the rear doors drew the attention of the paramedics, the first time Voss had noticed the doors were still open, and she glanced over and saw Turcotte poking his head inside.

“You were supposed to tell me if she came around,” Turcotte said.

“Give us a second,” Blondie said, making sure the gurney wasn’t going to be moving during transport. His partner climbed out to make room for Turcotte, who hoisted himself into the ambulance, drawing a dark look from Blondie. “You’ve got thirty seconds, Agent. Then you can follow us to the hospital if you want.”

Turcotte gave him a look suggesting he get out and leave them alone to talk, but Blondie wasn’t having it. Voss wanted to kiss him, but maybe that was the painkillers. It was nice to have someone watching over her, especially tonight.

“Someone took a shot at me,” she said as Turcotte knelt beside her gurney.

“A pretty good shot,” Turcotte replied, trying to sound lighthearted despite the glint of rage in his eyes.

“Better than that. If he hadn’t hit the bullhorn, he’d have put that bullet through my face.”

The bullhorn. Right. That’s why my mouth is so swollen. She searched her teeth with her tongue and found a bloody vacancy, with a jagged fragment of tooth still jutting from the gum.

“You gonna live?” Turcotte asked.

“For now. Can you dig out my phone? I’ve got to call in. Does my voice sound funny?”

Turcotte nodded. “Like you had a stroke, but it’s the drugs. Listen, Rachael, I called ICD already, spoke directly to Theodora Wood. She wants an update as soon as you’re out of surgery, but otherwise, the case is going to your partner—”

“Josh,” Voss muttered, the drugs thickening her tongue even further. “Thass good. Tell him … thissis a clusterfuck. Norris and wassisname, Arsenault, weren’t even here. FBI shot me.”

Turcotte flinched. “You think one of my people shot you on purpose?”

Even as fuzzy as her brain had become, she managed to narrow her eyes and glare at him. “Don’t be an asss. You think so, too. They had … orders not to shoot. And when someone pulls the trigger, instead of at McCann … McCandless, the bullet’s aimed at my fuggin skull? Thass not a accident.”

Unconsciousness flowed in at the edges of her mind again. She blinked and when she opened her eyes, Turcotte had started to rise to depart.

“Ed …”

“I need to talk to Hollenbach,” he said.

“Yeah. You do.” She closed her eyes, then struggled to open them again. “One lasst thing.”

Turcotte paused in a crouch by the ambulance doors, waiting.

“Don’t …” she started, drifting. “Don’t call … me …”

Then the world slid away. She felt the motion of the ambulance, but nothing else.