With the muzzle flash etched into his vision and the shot ringing in his ears, Gabe's head snapped back. The rear side window of the Buick spiderwebbed from the errant bullet. There was no second shot. Instead, tires screeching amid the smoke and stench of burning rubber, the sedan vaulted forward, spun on two wheels onto Twenty-second, and disappeared.

Still unable to piece together exactly what had happened, Gabe was limp, held in place by his seat belt, gasping for air and for composure.

No time. There had been no time even to react. A man had just tried to kill him!

From somewhere behind him a car door opened and closed. Then there were rapid footsteps, and seconds later his own car door flew open.

"Are you all right?"

The voice was familiar.

It took a moment for Gabe's vision to clear.

Standing there, looking down at him with undisguised concern, was Alison Cromartie.

CHAPTER 11

Is he all right?" a motorist called out from across the street. "Do you want me to call an ambulance?"

"Do you?" Alison asked Gabe.

Still stunned, he managed to shake his head.

"No, he's fine," Alison called out. "Just a little fender bender."

The motorist, the only one around, hesitated and then drove off.

"A guy in that car next to mine tried to kill me," Gabe said, fumbling for the words. "He . . . he shot at me from . . . Jesus, I can't believe this. I . . . I don't know if it was some sort of random drive-by or . . . or—"

"Easy, Doctor, easy. Are you sure you're not hurt? Can you stand up?"

"I think so. I . . . I froze. All I could see was the muzzle of that gun, and . . . and all I could think was, 'This is it.' I don't even know what happened next."

"I hit you from behind. That's what happened next," she said. "I saw what was about to happen and I rammed you. It was the only thing I could think of to do."

Gabe glanced back at the shattered rear window of the Buick.

"Nice move," he said.

Slowly, with help, he managed to stand and brace himself against the roof of his car. Alison, wearing black jeans and a black tank top, kept a supportive arm around his waist until it was clear he could manage on his own. As before, he became instantly engrossed in her closeness and the scent of her.

"Uh-oh," she said.

A D.C. black-and-white pulled up and stopped directly over the burnt rubber from the assassin's car. The strobes flicked on, and the cop in the passenger's seat, a lean black man, lowered his window.

"What's the deal here?" he asked.

"Oh, am I glad to—"

"Nothing big," Alison said, pointedly cutting Gabe off. "He did the right thing and stopped for a light, and I did the wrong thing and bumped into him. I'm guilty as charged."