Almost.

He’s wearing a vest, Slaton thought.

The stocky man returned fired, and a round smacked into the wall just in front of Slaton, concrete chips stinging his face.

Move, move!

Slaton fired across his body, but missed. At this range, on the run, the odds of a successful headshot were virtually nil. With two rounds remaining, and no spare magazine, he was on the defensive. There was nothing to be gained from an engagement—only risk. He changed his angle and sprinted toward a corner that would put him clear. A bus wheeled around from the side street, giving momentary cover, and Slaton lowered his weapon and went for flat-out speed. He was two steps from safety when another shot came. Another miss.

He never saw the scooter.

He would later surmise that it was a kid trying to get away. Whatever the case, the scooter appeared in a flash and hit him like an express train. Slaton clattered to the ground and slammed into a lamppost stanchion. Something slashed his arm. He was facedown on the sidewalk, arms and legs sprawled wide. The killer had to be right behind him, closing fast with a capable weapon—and now at a range where he wouldn’t miss.

With all the self-discipline he had, Slaton lay perfectly still.

He imagined the bald man nearing, imagined him focusing on his downed target and closing for a coup de grâce. Amid the raucous street noise, Slaton discerned the sound of slowing footsteps.

One …

Absolute stillness, his body relaxed. He sensed the footsteps shuffle to a pause.

Two …

A vision of the bald man raising his weapon, settling his sight.

Three.

Slaton snap-rolled left, and in the next instant a bullet smacked the concrete where his head had just been. The Beretta moved in a flash, his right hand sweeping a high arc to intersect the man’s head. At precisely the right instant—

Fire.

Flat on his back, Slaton again went still. The recoiling Beretta was calm in his hand, ready with one round remaining. He didn’t need it.

The killer, with a new and neat hole in his forehead, crumpled to the concrete and didn’t move.

Slaton did.

With the gunfire at an end, order would soon be restored. And order was his enemy. He scrambled to his feet and turned onto the side street. Were there any others? he wondered. Slaton hoped he’d been facing a team of two, but there was no way to be sure. He ran a block east, then a block south, glancing over his shoulder at every turn. He kept up the zigzag pattern, east then south, for five minutes. His arm stung, but he was moving fluently, adrenaline doing its job. He kept an eye on the cars and people around him, watching for movement that was abrupt or counter to the natural flow. Nothing drew his attention.