"Come on, Jim. Dammit, come on!"

They were still perhaps fifty yards from the river. Then what? Gabe asked himself. What if they made it? Again he glanced back. There was still some distance between them and each man, but the one coming from the bridge, the hit man, was far closer than the other and closing fast. If it was a pistol in the killer's hand, they were already near being in range. Either the men had instructions not to draw attention to the field with gunshots or they were intent on capturing him and Ferendelli alive.

Of course, there was another possibility. If the range of the transmitters was thirty yards or less, both pursuers would be in range soon.

Ferendelli stumbled, tried to recover with his extended arm, and then fell to one knee, totally spent.

Gabe, operating on a rush of adrenaline, grabbed the man's other arm and jerked him unceremoniously to his feet. Their run was awkward and uncoordinated, but they were definitely closing in on the river. Suddenly Ferendelli threw his hands up against his temples, cried out, pitched forward, and fell heavily, facedown, emitting a dreadful gurgling sound.

Gabe dropped down and checked his carotid pulse. If there was any, it was so faint as to be nearly undetectable. Ferendelli was still breathing, but not effectively. In any other circumstance, Gabe would be initiating CPR. But there was only a second or two to make a decision.

The hit man coming from the bridge, the one who had two near misses trying to kill Ferendelli, had stopped about twenty yards away. He had been aiming something at them that was clearly not a gun. Then he lowered his arm. Even through the gloom, Gabe felt certain he could see the man smiling.

"Stop, you bastard!" Gabe screamed. "Stop it!"

There was nothing to stop. The lethal weapon, undoubtedly a transmitter, had done what it was supposed to.

Ferendelli, facedown on the summer grass, was twitching. His agonal, liquidy breaths had quickly grown totally ineffective. The pulse in his neck was gone. On all fours, knowing that he might be moments away from death himself, Gabe moved several feet away, then scrambled to his feet. To his left, he could see the second man, egg-bald, still sprinting across the field from the Buick. He looked taller and more athletic than the one confronting him.

"Go ahead," the taller man cried out. "Go ahead and do it!"

The killer raised the transmitter once more.

Gabe whirled and, in a half crouch, bolted ahead toward the river, weaving from right to left to right again like the running back he had once been.

"Did you do it?" he heard the man behind him cry.

"I did," the one with the drawl shouted back. "It may need to recharge, or . . . or he may be out of range."

"I don't think so."