The second car, hard on the tail of the leader, slammed on its brakes when the first car veered off, then skidded broadside, rubber shrieking. Eric dropped the muzzle slightly and sent his second shot slamming into the front tire. It was like kicking one leg out from under a three-legged stool. The car flipped over, bounded hard on its side, then seemed to float momentarily before it slammed down on its bubble top and came to a shuddering halt in the middle of the street.

Eric heard the screech of brakes, car doors slamming, and the excited yells of men. Lights flicked on up and down the streets, and he prayed that none of the people would come out to see what was happening.

He scooped up the box of shells, crossed the sidewalk in two quick leaps, and vaulted the fence around Nicole’s house. As he hit the grass, he gave a sharp cry of pain, and his left leg buckled under him. Nearly two weeks had passed since the grizzly’s claws had laid him open, and the surface cuts were all but healed, but his leg was still too weak to take that kind of punishment. Biting back the pain, he pulled himself up, blasted off a quick round, then headed for the back alley in a lurching, hobbling run.

The alley that ran down the center of Nicole’s block had no lights, and Eric welcomed the darkness. As he cut around her garage, he turned left, hugging the deeper shadows of a high wooden fence. But before he had gone ten steps, the sharp sound of shoes running on gravel spun him around. Two dark, barely discernible figures were running hard down the alley toward him. He swung the rifle up and pulled the trigger even as it cleared his hip. With a startled cry, the two figures split, each diving for a different side of the alley. Before Eric could lever another shell into the chamber, he saw the first dark shape rise, and then a blast of air smashed past his head, sharply enough to feel like a slap against his cheek.