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just because they had breezed in this far did not mean that there weren’t a half a dozen AK-47s in there—with perps ready to use them.
    He raised an eyebrow to Fred, the question clear. Are you ready? Fred gulped twice, and then nodded back. He guessed that was going to have to do. Derek mouthed, one ... two ... on three.
    They burst into the room. Derek swung his gun toward the wide-eyed projectionist.
    “FBI! Stop the film, and back away from the projector!”
    The projectionist, a kid really, not more than twenty, held his hands up in surrender. He shook the whole time as his eyes darted to the audience, who acted as if two FBI agents hadn’t just burst into the room. A sheen of sweat broke out on the kid’s lip.
    That was the look of someone ready to do something really stupid. The kid grabbed the projector and shoved it toward them.
    As the projector grazed his hip, Derek swore under his breath. Like he said—stupid. Fred dodged the projector as the image onscreen lurched and fell away from the grimy screen. Derek lunged for the projectionist as pandemonium erupted. Snapped out of their trance, men and women began to scatter like roaches when the lights were turned on, creating the perfect cover for the projectionist to grab his bag of film reels and bolt. Derek threaded his way through the crowd, never taking his eyes off the kid.
    Fred, on the other hand, was like a billy goat, jumping over boxes and sprinting toward the projectionist. Seems like his partner might have been a hurdler in another life. Derek, on the other hand, had a sharp pain on his left side—a gentle reminder that maybe he shouldn’t have eaten two brats just before a perp rabbited on them.
    “Stop!” Fred yelled with more baritone than Derek had heard before.
    Of course, the kid didn’t obey him, but that was beside the point.
    Fred actually had some game. Would the surprises never end?
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    Fred ran full tilt, being sure to breathe through his nose and out through his mouth. For such a skinny little jerk, the guy was fast. Guess adrenaline helped even the scrawny. Only the faint glow of the moon lit the way ahead. The air was stale in his lungs. Glass crunched underfoot.
    Fred followed the projectionist up a rickety staircase that had seen better days. He had to dodge a few holes in the steps. When he looked up, the kid was gone.
    Suddenly, the projectionist jumped out of the shadows, slamming the bag filled with metal reels into Fred’s face. Thrown off-balance, Fred careened over the railing. His hands snatched at the wood but came up with only empty air. He tried to turn his body so that his shoulder took the hit, but he just didn’t have the time. Slamming into the floor, Fred felt his ankle buckle under him just before a loud snap.
    Holy mother of …
    Fred bit his lip, not wanting Mr. Uber-Agent to see him cry.
    Derek aborted the pursuit and charged back down the steps. “You okay?”
    Fuck, no! was the answer Fred wanted to give, but he held it together. “Yeah, just my ankle.”
    They both looked down at the unnatural angle of his foot.
    “It’s broken.” Derek stated the obvious.
    “Go,” Fred encouraged. “Get the SOB.”
    While Fred did want the projectionist to pay for his crimes, he also really wanted Derek to get going so that he could nurse his ankle in peace. But clearly, the senior agent was loath to leave a man down.
    “I’ll call for backup. Now go!”
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    That wasn’t just a break. It was a compound fracture. What could Derek do but coo to Fred? No, it was time to catch the idiot who had done this.
    “Be right back,” Derek said as he turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time. It was just a damn movie, not the Hope Diamond. Was it really worth assaulting a government agent over? An annoying agent, mind you, but a special agent, nonetheless.
    Derek paused at a doorway one floor up. He gave his eyes a minute to adjust before he entered the darkened