He severed the connection and gave Randi back her Beretta before throwing the window fully open and shoving her through it. Apparently, it was higher than he thought, and he winced at the dull thud of her back hitting the ground. Zellerbach went out next and he followed, grabbing Randi by the arm.

Zellerbach managed to outpace them, which suggested that the gas was affecting him more than he’d thought. Smith pulled off his gas mask and tried to call him back but got no reaction. Either he hadn’t heard or he was starting to panic. Probably the latter.

There was a flash about fifty meters to Smith’s left accompanied by the bark of an unsilenced weapon. Zellerbach pitched forward into the street and Smith used the Sig Sauer he’d taken to fire a couple of rounds in the general direction of the shooter before shoving Randi into a clump of bushes.

“Stay!” he said before breaking out into the open and sprinting toward his old friend squirming in the street.

The shooter got off a burst on full automatic but the rounds went well behind him. The chance that he was just a lousy shot or didn’t have a Merge to compensate for the darkness was fairly remote and when he looked back he saw exactly what he knew he would: Randi coming after him at about half her normal speed.

There was nothing he could do about her now, though, and he threw himself to the asphalt behind Zellerbach, pulling him closer to the curb. Randi landed a meter away, flattening herself on the ground as another volley chipped away at the edge of the concrete sidewalk.

“You think that’s the only guy they have left?” she said, sounding like she was thinking clearly again.

“We’re not that lucky. And unless I miss my guess, your friend Deuce is already back on his feet and looking for a weapon.”

The next shot was followed by a scream from Marty. “I’m hit! I’m shot! Oh, my God, I’m shot.”

While the curb was high enough to just cover Smith and Randi, Zellerbach’s bulbous behind was sticking up just enough for the shooter to graze it.

He looked like he was going to bolt and Smith grabbed his ankles while Randi held his shoulders and whispered soothingly to him.

Another shot created a second tear in the back of his pants and he screeched even louder this time. Neither wound was much more than a scratch, but they couldn’t just lie there while Zellerbach was whittled down inch by inch. The curb they were pressed against would only protect them from a fairly distant attacker to the east. From any other sidewalk, street, yard, or driveway, they were sitting ducks.