The 7 train line was just ahead now. He saw a station entrance with green metal railings and sets of concrete stairs leading underground. About a half block beyond was a second entrance, one with escalators instead of stairs.

It would be easier to take an escalator down to the platform. He wanted to limit his movements and save his strength.

Grigor passed the stairway and hurried up the street to the escalator. He turned into its entrance, took hold of the rail to steady himself, stepped onto the treaded metal riser and started to move.

A second later, he disappeared beneath the sidewalk.

The minifrag might have sounded like a backfiring automobile exhaust. But its high-explosive fill and the fifteen-foot radius of its shrapnel spray made it surpassingly lethal.

The instant he saw it arcing toward him, Carmody knew he had between three and five seconds. Minus three, minus five. The timed fuse would be one or the other. Then the primer would ignite the tetryl and the blast wave would drive the casing’s metal fragments upward and outward in every direction.

But three seconds could be a long time when the adrenaline was pumping. If the shrapnel field was flying up and out, he had to go down and away.

Knees bent, head low between his arms, Carmody lunged into a forward roll down the hillside about two seconds before it dropped. It was basic training all over again, except he was on a slope instead of a gymnasium floor. His leg muscles gave him the initial propulsion. His size and weight and forward momentum took care of the rest.

He went tumbling toward the base of the ridge, crashing through the tangled brush, rolling over rocks, dirt and root clumps. The breath woofed out of him. His left arm felt like a white-hot blade was stuck in it. Behind him the hillside coughed dirt and twigs into the air. He heard the crack of shrapnel carving into bark and bouncing off rocks.

And then he was at the bottom, in a patch of dirt verging on the sidewalk. He sprang to his feet, realized he was on an avenue full of cars and people, the Sig in his hand. An old Asian woman with a shopping bag noticed it and hustled past him. A guy behind her too. They both pretended not to see.

Carmody tucked the gun into his pants, looked left and right for Malkira. He didn’t see any sign of him and almost wished for a second he hadn’t ditched his helmet. Dragonfly was up above him somewhere. He couldn’t see or hear it, but it was up there. Lucas and his drone would be able to track Malkira within the search box. Visually and through his satphone emissions.

He looked this way and that again. Nothing. He frowned and looked at the ground for possible footprints. Nothing...at first. Then his eyes narrowed.