LITMIR.BIZ

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His aim thrown off by the jarring impact of his footsteps smacking against concrete, the first volley cleaved through the air and collided with a brick wall several feet to the shooter’s right. Shards of brick exploded from the wall, nicking the man’s face, causing him to screw up the right side of his face and bunch up his shoulder in a protective gesture.

      Whipping around, the guy spotted Blancanales and his pistol flared to life. The Able Team commando surged left, his weapons spitting another blistering fusillade. As before, most of the shots drilled into nearby brickwork or tore through the man’s long coat, driving him back, but not biting into flesh.

      Blancanales darted right, purposely moving away from what he believed to be Schwarz’s position. Stuck in the middle of a four-lane street with no protection, Blancanales knew he made too tempting a target to pass up and he wanted to draw fire away from his comrade.

      As he ran, bullets kicked into the asphalt, snapping at his heels. Turning at the waist as he moved, he squeezed off matching tribursts from the Berettas. This time a 9 mm Parabellum round cleaved into the side of the man’s neck, apparently just nicking the skin. He slapped a hand over the wound as though striking a bug. The realization that he’d been wounded seemed to unnerve the guy a bit, prompting him to unleash a final barrage from his weapon, the flurry of lead forcing Blancanales to sprint for cover behind a parked car. Even as he did, his opponent backed away, disappearing through the balcony door.

      Springing to his feet, Blancanales crossed the street, his eyes taking in the carnage as he did. He counted at least three fallen hardmen, though there could be more sandwiched between cars or slumped in recessed doorways. Dozens of pockmarks scarred the historic buildings, pierced car bodies and caused spiderweb cracks to form on the car windows.

      Even as he closed in on his friend, the commando kept an eye trained on the front door of the building that only scant heartbeats ago had provided a perch for a killer, knowing the guy might burst through the front door, gunning for a rematch. However, Blancanales considered the chances remote. The shooter more likely would find a rear exit, get the hell out of there while he still could.

      He knelt next to Gadgets and checked to see whether his old friend was breathing.

      CARL LYONS SPED through the diner, winding his way between patrons sprawled facedown on the hardwood floors scuffed and scarred from more than a century of use.

      Thrusting his full body weight against the swing doors, he surged into the kitchen, intent on reaching the rear exit. He found himself facing a young man, hair dyed green, standing there, his face etched in terror. The kid clutched a butcher knife in a white-knuckled grip. Lyons halted, eyeing him warily, unsure whether he planned to attack. The young man held the knife to his heaving chest, as though it were a shield.

      The young man’s face was pale, making his green locks seem all the more garish.

      “We got a problem here, kid?” Lyons asked.

      The young man shook his head, squeezing the knife against his chest.

      “How about you put down the knife?”

      “Can’t.”

      “Kid, I’m losing time here. Drop the damn knife.”

      “My fingers. They won’t move.”

      Impatience flared within him, but Lyons squashed it with a deep exhale. He needed to get through that door, but he didn’t want to charge a panicked kid with a knife. Under normal circumstances, the kid likely wouldn’t pose a threat. But he had the look of a cornered animal and Lyons didn’t want to push him.

      He adopted what he called his “jumper” voice, a soothing, patient tone he’d learned to use as a cop.

      “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m a federal agent. I need to get through that door. What say you drop the knife?”

      “They shot her. I saw it.”

      “Who?”

      “The lady cop.”

      “Kid, we’re burning daylight. I gotta go through that door. You’re in my way.”

      Hesitating another heartbeat, the young man finally shuddered and dropped the knife.

      “Good,” Lyons said. He gestured the kid away from the door, and this time he complied. “Hide somewhere until the cops come to get you,” Lyons said as he brushed past the young man.

      Lyons stepped into the alley and immediately found the pungent smell of rotting food assailing his nostrils. A garbage Dumpster stood to his right. Police cars barreled into the alley from both ends, their sirens screaming.

      The Python extended, Lyons skirted the garbage bin, his eyes searching either for Gabe Fox or for another killer. Footsteps slapped against concrete and a moment later Lyons caught sight of a stocky man with coffee-colored skin bearing down on him. He remembered the guy as one of the gunners who’d been with the black-coated shooter a few minutes earlier.

      The guy spotted Lyons and began to raise his gun.

      The gesture came a microsecond too slow. The Colt Python bucked twice in Lyons’s hand. The slugs hammered into the hardman’s stomach and he collapsed to the ground. Even though he was sure the guy was dead, Lyons kicked away the man’s gun as he moved past him.

      “Ironman to Ace.”

      “Go, Ironman,” Grimaldi replied.

      “You have any contact with our runaway?”

      “Negative.”

      “Politician?”

      “With me. We’re watching the paramedics treat Gadgets.”

      “Give me a sitrep.”

      “Give us five and I’ll let you know.”

      “Make it three.”

      “Roger that.”

      Before he could make another move, a police car skidded to a halt twenty yards to his left. Doors popped open on either side and a pair of county deputies surged from the vehicle, guns drawn. Anticipating this, Lyons had already holstered the Colt, exchanging it for his fake Justice Department credentials. He raised his hands, flipping open his badge case as he did, and played it cool. Experience told him that a downed officer put everyone on edge, igniting a volatile combination of fury and fear. He felt it burning in his own gut and wanted to chase down the bastards who’d shot Gadgets and the other fallen officer. He also didn’t want to waste precious seconds tangling with the locals. One of the officers, his gun drawn, approached him. From the corner of his eye, Lyons could see another deputy, a sergeant, closing in from the opposite direction.

      The officer snagged Lyons’s ID from his hand, stepped back and inspected it. Holstering his weapon, the guy returned Lyons’s credentials and other officers emerged from cover.

      “The other guys told us to look for you, Agent Irons,” the cop said. “We lost your shooter.”

      Lyons nodded. “I’m going. I hope everything turns out okay for the lady.” Without waiting for the man’s reply, he turned and walked away.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Fox thrust himself inside a doorway as a pair of police cars whizzed by, sirens blaring. The move was more of a reflex than a rational action. He’d spent too many years in the juvenile justice system to regard the police as friends, even under the current circumstances. The CIA—or at least someone within the Agency—already had sold him out. Who was to say the police around here weren’t also bought and paid for?

      Moving quickly, he covered two blocks on foot, his gaze cast downward, though he continued taking in his surroundings with surreptitious glances.

      Pain seared through his ribs, causing him to wince with each step. The knife thrust had been a glancing one, striking bone, skittering off it, without biting into the vital organs beneath his rib cage. But Fox

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