Cold October rain pissed down hour after ceaseless hour. Posten bounced on his toes, trying and failing to keep warm. From beach partrol to gate guard at the Inn: two of the worst assignments back to back. At least the guards stationed around the estate's perimeter got to stretch their legs and could share a joke or a moan as they passed each other on rounds. But not the gate guard. You had to stand there in the dampness let the chill seep in your bones. Posten knew before hitting the sack he'd need to drape every spare blanket he could find over him, and work for hours at coaxing feeling back into his fingers.

Beach patrol followed by gate guard. Have I pissed someone off or is it just bad luck? he wondered. And both assignments with Mr. Personality. He gave Meli a sideways glance. The man stood blinking like some dumb beast off in his own world, fidgeting and mumbling at shadows.

Posten cupped his hands around the lantern for some warmth. Protocol forbid this as a silhouette made for an easy target, but on a night like this a sniper's bullet would be a reprieve. So many rules in the MPD and no one enforcing them. Besides, he thought, no one's out wandering around on a night like this.

As if answering his thoughts, Posten heard what he thought was a faint shout. Meli glanced up, meaning Posten hadn't imagined hearing it. Meli drew his pistol and peered into the blackness. Looked like Meli was taking seriously their standing order to shoot trespassers on sight during the nighttime hours. Posten raised his rifle.

"Hit the spotlight," Posten said, thinking, No false alarms. Meli stepped on the generator's pedal and it sputtered to life. He pulled the lever and a bright circle of white light cut a path through the jet-black night. Through his rifle scope Posten followed the beam as Meli swept slowly to the left, and then back to the right.

"Stop! Hold it right there!" Posten said.

Across the broken pavement before the mansion stood the charred bones of an old house, which the MPD had razed to prevent squatters taking up residence. Debris still existed though, and behind a pile of rubble Posten had caught a glimpse of movement. He drew a breath and held it, focusing the cross-hairs in the area. He saw the flutter again and recongized what it was: a waving hand, about a foot off the ground. The hand fluttered and then fell to the ground. Then it struggled to rise and they heard another shout, this time fainter.

"I see something," Posten said.

"Fire when ready," Meli said, locking the light into place and reaching for his own scoped rifle.

Posten's pulse quickened but he held his breath and steadied his aim. The crown of a helmet crested the rubble and Posten's finger curled around the trigger. Then he jerked his hand away and signaled to Meli. "Stop! It's MPD. I saw the insignia on the helmet. It's a guard. He's down. Looks like he's hurt."

"I'm sounding the alarm," Meli said.

"Don't!" Posten said. Protocol wouldn't allow them to investigate. The higher ups warned them that wounded colleagues could be bait to draw lone guards into a trap and compromising the Inn's defenses. That scenario seemed absurd to Posten, who didn't think rundown junkies could tie their broken shoelaces together, much less coordinate a complex ambush. If they raised the alarm now there would be meetings and debates as the question of what to do made its way up the chain of command. Posten knew how he'd feel if it were he laying out there in the rain and the dark. Wounded. Bleeding. Freezing. Dying.

"That's one of ours out there. Cover me and don't sound the alarm. I'll be back in two minutes," Posten said to Meli as he unlocked the gate and slipped through without waiting for a response.

He dashed toward the figure, his rifle at the ready. The plinking of rain on his helmet echoed in his head as he neared the pile. "MPD! Move and you're dead. Keep your hands in sight."

As he rounded thedebris he saw two shadowed figures cloaked in ponchos. The one wearing the MPD-issue helmet was on his back, his face twisted in pain. The other sat hunched perfectly still. "Move and I'll shoot," Posten said as he crept forward.

"I'm Marrero. Special ops. Ambushed," the man whispered. "Everybody dead. I'm shot. All shot up," he said, followed by a gasp. His face contorted.

From the Mansion Posten heard the whine of the siren and three new spotlights flashed into life, the beams dizzily wheeling to their position. Damn you Meli, Posten cursed. This infraction could cost him his head. Maybe literally.

"We've got downed guards over here!" Posten shouted, hoping the guards wouldn't open fire on him too. Then to the second huddled person, "What's your story? Are you hurt?"

The hooded figure's head turned to him but said nothing.

"Answer!" Posten reached with his rifle, pulling back the hood with the barrel. He gasped and let it fall back over the face.

Even in the uncertain light, Posten knew the squinting, blinking face belonged to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.