He’s shouting to Rachel to get herself clear.

The train screeches toward the writhing trio of Ben-David, Instancer, and Rachel.

Instancer flings Rachel off him.

He re-seizes Ben-David by the throat.

Somehow Ben-David shakes free.

He flings himself onto the track, directly in the path of the train.

I’m screaming. Bystanders wail. The train is twenty feet from Ben-David.

He scrambles wildly, dives clear.

Manning skids up, shouting to Rachel to get out of the way.

She does.

Manning rises into a shooting stance, point-blank before Instancer.

I see muzzle flashes—three in rapid succession. Then the train, brakes screeching, passes between me and the platform, eclipsing all sight of Instancer and Manning.

Ben-David is on the downtown express track, right in front of me. The train, huge and dark and stinking of hot steel and smoking brake pads, power-slides past on the uptown express track in a broadside of sparks.

I grab Ben-David.

I haul him to his feet.

Astonishingly, two bystanders, both black kids in gangbanger garb, have leapt onto the tracks to help us.

“Police officer!” I bawl into their startled faces, flashing my shield. I shove Ben-David into the boys’ arms. “Get him to the downtown platform. Be careful!”

I spin toward the uptown side. I see more muzzle flashes from the far flank of the train, then two forms, no doubt Manning and Instancer, dashing along the platform, one in pursuit of the other.

Alarms are going off all over the station. Red, yellow, and blue lights flash along both platforms and all four tracks. The train has finally stopped. I’m on the track. I stumble around the train’s rear. Finally I can see.

Instancer faces Manning on the platform.

Fifteen feet between them.

Instancer is unarmed, in jeans and hoodie. If any of Manning’s rounds have hit him, I detect no sign.

Manning fires again.

Bangbangbangbang.

Bystanders are shrieking and plunging for cover.

The double-stack magazine of Manning’s P226 holds fifteen nine-millimeter hollow-points that at close range produce more hydrostatic shock on a human target than the mule-kick of an Army Colt .45 M1911. The weapon’s report is ear-shattering in a confined space like a subway platform.

Manning’s initial fusillade shreds Instancer’s T-shirt and hoodie as if they were tissue. The salvo slams into Instancer’s chest.

The impact rocks Instancer, but does not penetrate.

He does not go down.

My own nine-millimeter is in my hands.

Manning fires again.

I do too.

Bullets tear into Instancer from two directions.

The din is deafening. The muzzle flashes from Manning’s weapon leap out so far they actually touch Instancer.

Instancer’s eyes never leave Manning’s.

He staggers but remains upright.

No blood.

No rending of flesh.

The bullet strikes rock him backward. But he remains on his feet.