A pair of sickening spits confirmed his worst suspicions. The dead man’s head absorbed heavy-caliber bullets from two different directions.

Another second or so would pass before the bolt-action rifles would permit a second tap. Now Janson sprang up, to his full height. The snipers’ scopes would be trained on the spot where the guard’s head had appeared. Janson would expose himself several feet higher. He had to make his sighting and shoot nearly instantaneously.

Time turned to syrup.

He peered out, identified the small, gleaming square of glass, and squeezed out a burst of three shots into it. With luck, he would at least damage the sniper’s equipment. The gun bucked in his hand as it sent out its blast, and Janson retreated behind the heavy door. A guttural spray of curses was audible through the broken glass, telling him that he had scored some kind of hit.

One perch may have been deactivated. But how many more remained? He studied the two additional bullet wounds on the guard’s head. One projectile had traveled from a steep downward trajectory, evidently from the house opposite. The other, which entered high on a cheek, came at a sharp angle, indicating a sniper from a neighbor to the right.

He could have Cooper pull up in the armored limo, but just the few feet of exposure would, with an active sniper in the vicinity, prove deadly. At least one person would have his rifle aimed directly on the stoop.

Janson heaved the corpse upward in a vaulting movement across the main front room, and studied the reaction.

An unsilenced blast shattered what remained of the window, followed by a cluster of spits, shots that were sound-suppressed but no less deadly. How many? How many guns were trained on this house; how many riflemen were awaiting a clean shot? At least five, and the real number could be much higher.

Oh, dear God. An all-out assault on Peter Novak’s headquarters was in progress. Had he brought this about by his presence? It strained belief, but then little made sense any longer.

All he was certain of was that he had to get out of the house and that he could not use the doors. He charged up the stairs. Another flight up, narrower, brought him to the third floor, where he found himself looking at a closed door. Was there time? He had to check it out—had to make time. He tried the handle; it was locked. Janson broke it open with a forceful kick and found himself in a private office.