Elmander watched the bald man square his shoulders and raise his weapon. His policeman’s response was instantaneous, a sequence beaten into his head through years of training. He shouted, “Police, drop your weapon!” and set himself in a good platform as he brought his own weapon to bear. It was a motion he had practiced a thousand times on the firing range.

But this was not a firing range.

Elmander felt like he was moving in slow motion, like his limbs were stuck in quicksand. He saw the massive barrel being leveled at him, and knew that his own gun was coming up too late. His sited his target, but the picture was uncontrolled and wavering. Elmander tried to settle for a shot, knowing speed was nothing without accuracy. He watched the bald man doing the same. His finger began to squeeze, but the gun’s hammer never fell.

He was hit.

Excruciating pain seared into his right thigh, and before he knew it he was toppling sideways like a two-hundred-pound bowling pin. Strangely, in that instant, with the pavement rushing toward his left ear in an uncontrolled descent, Elmander swore he heard a second bullet whistle past his head. As he hit hard and rolled, every conscious effort went to one thing. Hold on to your gun, you idiot!

Elmander did. The hard steel stock was there in his hand, but when he tried to stand again his right leg buckled. Half sitting, half kneeling, he scanned for the bald man and saw him, just a flash disappearing behind the frame of a parked car. Elmander trained his gun in that direction—a terrible position from which to fire, but at least a deterrent. Something for the man to think about. He looked for Deadmarsh but didn’t see him anywhere.

Christ.

His leg felt as if it was on fire, but through either honed discipline or visceral fear Elmander ignored his wound. The siren was getting closer, echoing off the surrounding buildings in the most beautiful symphony he’d ever heard. He kept alert, his weapon poised, knowing that if he could just keep the assailant at bay for another minute, maybe two, help would arrive. Scanning the streets and sidewalks, he saw no sign of either Deadmarsh or the bald man. As it turned out, Elmander would never see either again.

He did, however, hear their shots.

*   *   *

With the policeman out of the fight, Slaton ran an arc around the bald man, pulling him away from the wounded officer. He was moving at full speed, skirting the busy street. The .22 Beretta is a light weapon, and even in his practiced hand a handicap in terms of range, accuracy, and stopping power. Slaton fired from fifty feet on a hard run, and the fact that he scored any hits at all was testament that his marksmanship had not faded. Of the three rounds he sent, two found their mark.

His target rocked once, twice, and almost fell.