He wasted no time. The sound carried terminal information. No need to look at the results, though he involuntarily snatched a glimpse of the Marshal, also toppling, also issuing copious outflow, to determine that that man was probably not fatally hit but had a year of headaches in store for him.

In the moment of suspended animation that followed, it was Swagger who screamed, “The Dome! The Dome!” and, without a whisper of pause, bolted toward the police car behind the Marshals’ SUV, yanked open the rear, piled in, and shouted again: “The Dome! The Dome!” The absurd smell of sloshed coffee filled the automobile, but indeed the sergeant at the wheel bumped into drive, squirmed out from his slot, went hard left, peeled around the lot, hit the exit gate, blew through it, sending spars and splinters of yellow-and-black-striped wood flying, cranked hard left down 4th Street and put pedal flat to floor, and the power drive of Dodge Charger Pursuit’s best 370 hammered its way through the atmosphere.

“Headquarters 10-35. Shots fired, shots fired, Fourth and Main, need medical fast,” said the other cop into his mic. “Officers down. We are proceeding to Immaculate Conception, shots may have originated there, all units, 10-35, Immaculate Conception, proceed under siren.”

“Tell ’em, suspects heavily armed, expect to receive gunfire,” Swagger said, as the two blocks of 4th Street went to a blur outside the speeding vehicle, and the g-forces tugged its occupants back.

“Be advised, all units, may encounter gunfire at site.”

“Got a gun?” Swagger said.

“There’s a shotgun in the trunk. I’ll pop it when we bail out.”

“Roger that,” said Swagger, as the car reached its destination, yielding the sudden image of two SUVs halted at the curb in front of the cathedral just as a batch of priests were scurrying toward them.

“Watch it, goddammit,” yelled Swagger, as one of the priests dipped and came out with an assault rifle.

All three of the occupants went down as a fleet of small, angry missiles nailed the windshield, reducing it to sparkles, veins, and glittering spray. Nobody was hit, but the car itself slid out of control, sideswiped a parked vehicle, came to a hard stop against another, throwing each occupant forward and into shock against whatever was ahead of them, dashboard or the back of the front seat. Swagger felt a bone crack, a rib twist, his heart go flat as a pancake, his lungs nearly split, and a rocket of bad pain go vertically from the center of his body. More fire splattered against the car, filling it with the sound of metal shearing, vibrations like a ripsaw, and the pungency of fried paint and gasoline. But at the same time, more sirens rose, meaning that the guys were incoming, and maybe there’d be enough of them to close this thing down.

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