He quickly saw it was indeed a stupid thing to do, as the companion emerged again, this time with pistol, which he put toward Bob. As his trigger finger almost went into full press, someone just behind him shot the guy six times with a Glock. It was Chandler.

“Get back!” he screamed at her.

“You first,” she replied.

But something knocked her flat. This burst, probably from a gunman behind a car, spared Bob. No one would kill him! It seemed so wrong!

He ran to her.

“Where are you—”

“Vest,” she wheezed. “I’m okay. Just . . . ribs . . .”

He got behind her and dragged her behind the Marshals’ SUV.

“Stay here!”

“Take this!”

It was her Glock. But it was locked back, empty.

“Mag?”

“Gone.”

“Shit,” said Bob, and flicked the slide lock so that the gun clacked shut, even if empty. An empty gun could be better than no gun.

“Stay down now!” he yelled.

If she had a riposte—and she almost certainly did—he didn’t hear it, for again he took off. But this time instead of running to the building, he ran to its side, reasoning that Juba would cut through the cathedral, find a way to reach the other side, and make his break into traffic, where he’d hijack a car or maybe just hot-wire something parked nearby. Juba would know what to do, that was for certain.

Bob came around the rear of the immense building, stepped out of its shade into sunlight, and noted that on this street traffic had stopped, pedestrians had disappeared, but all the cop cars with flashing lightbars and still screaming sirens were half a block away, clustered at the intersection. He slowed, but not much, negotiating the far side of the cathedral complex, and came to an arch, out of which, at that precise point in time, came a husky priest. As priests don’t normally wear mics, yellow shooting glasses, or carry Krinkov assault rifles, he understood, in supertime, who it was. His reactions were appropriate. It was an open field tackle, low into the hips, no arms wrapping around, and, as the two crashed together, Juba’s rifle flew. Each endured a moment of spangled confusion, but each came up fast.

“Freeze!” yelled Bob, the Glock locked on Juba’s midsection.

“No shoot, no shoot!” yelled Juba, in English, his arms flying upward. “Please, sir, no shoot!”