The screaming went on. Sonny’s hand was free to get at Devlin’s nose. Devlin had to keep both hands locked on the gun. It fired a second time. Devlin pushed Sonny’s finger back hard against the trigger guard.

“Get your head down, Frank,” John said calmly, suddenly close. Devlin did it, holding tight.

“Kill this son of a bitch!”

“No problem. Get your head lower. All right, you, drop the gun!”

Sonny yelled, struggled against Devlin; it was pure panic. John’s shotgun went off like a cannon on a battleship.

Behind the Lincoln, in the windshield of the Olds Regency four-door, were two holes the size of basketballs, and in the front seat, head-shot, dead, were the red-haired guy and the other one. Not Rizzo. Maybe next time. The red-haired guy had his hand inside his jacket. The other one had one hand in his lap with the palm up. Blue-and-whites had arrived immediately. John had had to tell Devlin to display his shield. John’s hand seemed welded to the shotgun. This was the arrangement Devlin had made with John this morning. DiBennedetti and Company had expected him in Dutchess County this afternoon. Devlin had expected to get them to this intersection between 7:30 and 8:30 this evening. The shotgun had been John’s idea. Or maybe somebody else’s, Devlin thought. People were staring at him, pointing. He was bleeding again. The intersection had filled with blue-and-whites almost instantly. More cars were nosing in. A gold shield pushed through the crowd. The eyebrows went up when he saw Devlin.

“Henderson, Manhattan North. You all right?”

“Yeah. Look, we got things to do …”

“Did you talk to the chief?” John asked him.

Henderson gave a cop’s tight grin. “He talked to me.”

“All right,” John said. “I identified myself to these two back here as a police officer when I heard a gunshot, apparently from this other car. I saw the two here go for weapons. I fired one round at each. There was another shot from the front car. I went to the aid of my partner, who was hand-to-hand with the third perp. I ordered that man to drop his weapon. He resisted. I fired one round at him.” John thrust the shotgun at Henderson. “It bears my mark. Tag it and bag it. My partner and I need a ride to the Seventy-second Street Marina.” When Henderson didn’t move, John let his eyes roam the crowd. “Like right now,” he said quietly.

Henderson looked at Devlin. “You don’t want to get to a hospital?”

Devlin was testing the gauze for sogginess. “I have to see Brennan,” he told John. He felt a chill. Was it shock?