He knew he had to do something, so he clambered out of his car. He heard the reassuring sound of a siren in the distance. Backup was on the way. His hand went under his jacket and he performed an awkward exchange—his phone for his SIG Sauer. At a cautious trot, Lars Elmander began moving toward the Renaissance Tea Room.

*   *   *

One hundred yards away, on an opposite diagonal to the café, a stocky and nearly bald man burst from a black Mercedes sedan. He too began moving, though at a decidedly more purposeful clip. His eyes alternated between the café and a blond man with a crew cut who had just come into play—judging by his dress, the bald man decided, almost certainly a policeman. As if to prove the point, the crew-cut man drew a weapon as he ran, and his other hand fumbled in a back pocket for what had to be his credentials.

The bald man altered his vector slightly, but he didn’t slow—not until he reached the street. The traffic was heavy, a nearby light having cycled to green at precisely the wrong time. That, he knew, could be fixed. He held up an open palm to stop oncoming traffic, and reinforced the directive with what was brandished in his other hand—a heavy handgun with a long barrel.

An approaching delivery truck skidded to a stop.

*   *   *

Slaton saw them both.

The policeman was closer, thirty yards and closing. He was holding his ID toward Slaton, but his gun was low, pointed at the pavement—a configuration that might prove fatal in a matter of seconds. The bald man’s weapon was ready, held steady and high. Slaton couldn’t identify the type of gun from forty yards, but it was a heavy piece.

Only the policeman seemed unaware of the triangular nature of the battlefield. Any of the three might shoot, and all had two targets from which to choose. It was a tactical riddle the likes of which Slaton had never experienced, indeed never imagined. The kind of situation his old instructors at the schoolhouse loved to conjure. In an instant, he narrowed his focus to one thing—his desired outcome. He had to separate from this place and get safe. Countless variables came into play—crowds, traffic, a low sun—all things that might or might not push an engagement in his favor. There was simply no time to compute it all. Slaton’s principal advantage was that he had faced such dilemmas before, and so he took immediate control.

With the Beretta still palmed tightly to his hip, he looked squarely at the cop. Slaton raised his empty left hand and pointed toward the third man in the street.

*   *   *

Elmander didn’t stop. But he looked where Deadmarsh was pointing. He saw a stocky man with a gun in the middle of the road.

On locking gazes both froze.