Despite his bulk, Agent Lefleur sidestepped gracefully along the porch tracking the movement of the shadowy figure through the windows. His eyes darted between the figure, his suspect in the doorway, the flabbergasted teenage girl, and the irate old man. This was bad.

He drew his gun, his one gun, and counted the variables. Part of him wished he’d brought more guns. And he could have. At one point he’d figured how to comfortably wear seven firearms, thanks to his size.

But that would have been conceeding that his role was one of brute force, and he tried so hard to not be defined by his physicality. He wanted to be more than a big slab of meat and a trigger finger.

As Agent Lefleur rounded the corner, the figure slunk onto the sideporch that doubled as a dock. Cole was inching along behind, the teenager in tow. The old man kept shouting. The stooped figure made for the boat at the end of the dock.

“Freeze, or I will shoot. Last warning!” That did it. It usually did. That or the shot that followed.