Any second, Carl would be able to see him. Gabe braced himself against the armor covering the haunch of the horse and tightened his grip on the handle of the hunting knife, preparing for an overhand stab. Between horse and rider there had to be at least two hundred pounds of steel, probably more. He had to bring the setup down quickly and accurately.

One more step, just one, and . . .

Gabe drove his shoulder into the armor as if he were trying to take out an onrushing lineman. Carl's reaction, not unexpectedly, was to whirl and fire. The impact of the armor sent him stumbling backward, and he fell heavily, with much of the horse collapsing down on him. Gabe dove on top of the armor, slashing randomly downward with the heavy blade again and again until he felt it hit flesh and heard Carl's cry.

Then, an instant later, Gabe was shot.

The bullet, one of a volley of wild shots from Carl's pistol, tore through the tissue just above Gabe's right hip, spinning him backward and off the horse. Above the armor he could see the killer trying to set for another, more accurate shot, but through the gloom he also saw the hunting knife protruding from the man's thigh. Gabe managed to get his feet onto the mannequin and pushed it against the killer as hard as he could. Then Gabe rolled over and stumbled to his feet, gasping at the pain from his wound at the same moment Carl was screaming, "You fucker! You stabbed me! I'll kill you! You fucking bastard! I'll kill you!"

Several more shots exploded, echoing through the vast hall.

Dragging his leg, Gabe lurched toward the dining room and headed for the short stairway leading up to the second level, away from where he suspected the other gunman, Crackowski, would be coming. His jeans were rapidly soaking through with blood, and he felt blood dripping down into his boot. Still, no matter what, he had gotten one in for Jim Ferendelli.

The pain from his wound was intense but manageable. Using the stone banister, he hauled himself up to the second floor and around to the balcony surrounding the empty pool from twelve feet above. It was easy to imagine Drew, his father, and his grandfather, as well as family and friends, jumping and diving from the balcony into the pool, which included, Drew had told him, an overhead grid of pipes used to simulate a rainstorm on cue. In fact, the pipes were still there, illuminated to some extent by light reflecting off the clouds and coming through a glass canopy as large as the pool.