Sniper. And him with no place to hide.
This could be a problem.
Loving raced across the street and dove toward a small grocery on the corner, hoping it would be open. It wasn’t. He considered breaking in, but he knew that by the time he managed that, even the clumsiest of snipers would have nailed him. He kept running, dodging in one direction, then another, hoping that if he stayed sufficiently serpentine and unpredictable he might last a little bit longer. He had almost made it to the end of the street when he saw a black sedan pull up on the opposite side.
A rear door opened. Pretty Boy appeared.
He was carrying his machine gun.
Someone else was getting out of the back of the car, too, but Loving didn’t stop to take notes. He backtracked a few steps and then turned left, hoping to get as far as possible as quickly as possible. As soon as he saw an alleyway, he raced into it. He didn’t care who was in there; he needed cover, fast. He flung himself between two sleazy-looking old men who were taking something down, knocking away everything they held in their mutual hands. Might be a trillion dollars of heroin hitting the pavement for all Loving knew, and for all he cared. He had to stay safe. He searched for a trash Dumpster, anything that might shield him. There was nothing. Probably just as well. If he stopped anywhere, Pretty Boy and his new playmate would close in quickly.
He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, wondering if he were still within the sniper’s range. Another gunshot rang out, ricocheting off the walls and burning into the pavement not a yard from his foot. Well, that answered that question.
He resumed running, wondering how close the killer really was. It was entirely possible he was not pinned down to a sniper’s nest but mobile, moving from rooftop to rooftop, able to follow Loving almost anywhere. If that were the case, he was a thousand times more dangerous.
Loving wasn’t safe in the alley, obviously, so he plunged out the opposite opening and kept running. He started right, but another bullet burned a trail before him. He whipped around and started in the other direction. He’d been lucky so far, given that the sniper had an obvious advantage on him. In fact, he’d been far too lucky. There was only one possible conclusion.
The sniper wasn’t trying to kill him. He was trying to herd him. Probably toward Pretty Boy.
Sure enough, at the end of the street, well before he arrived, Loving saw Pretty Boy and his new companion whip around the corner, arms at the ready. The new guy was probably a professional, but Loving could tell he wasn’t in Leon’s league. They’d fired Leon to punish him for his previous failure, which was mostly Pretty Boy’s fault, and now they were suffering for it. This man was older, more haggard, tall and too relaxed for modern-day murder, especially when the target not only knew someone was after him but had some experience at avoiding trouble. Definitely not a Leon; more like Max von Sydow in Three Days of the Condor. Who, Loving recalled, never did manage to plug Robert Redford. But Loving supposed he couldn’t expect this story to have the same happy ending. This wasn’t a movie, and besides, he was much better-looking than Robert Redford.
He had about a third of a second to make a decision. The two hit men were in front of him, the sniper was behind, and the only other thing on the street was a flight of stairs leading to the subway.
Loving hated to do it. He knew that once again going into a crowded place would endanger innocents, especially given Pretty Boy’s proven penchant for firing his weapon in public. But there was no alternative.
He hit every other step on his way down the metal stairs, then plunged into the throng. He pushed his way through the crowd and leaped over the turnstile. He didn’t have time to pay the fare. He realized that it might get him arrested, but at the moment, that would be a good thing. If he could attract some law enforcement attention, it was just possible the killers might back off. He tore down another flight of steps and moved toward the trains.
A bullet whizzed just in front of his face, this time so close there could be no question in his mind: these people were trying to kill him, no matter who else got hurt. Some of the people around Loving realized what had happened and ducked or screamed, but the station was so crowded and so noisy most people didn’t notice at all.
Where were they?
When he looked up, Loving got his answer—one he didn’t like at all. Pretty Boy and Max were perched on the upper level. They’d found an overlook, a balcony of sorts, and it gave them a perfect view of everything below. There was no way he could escape them, especially if Pretty Boy opened up his automatic weapon on the crowd. It wasn’t nearly packed enough for Loving to get lost in the melee. And there was no telling how many people might die if serious gunplay ensued.
He didn’t have time to deliberate at length. He just went for what seemed like the smart thing at the time. Loving cupped his hands to his lips and bellowed: “Look out! Sniper!”
As if in answer, another shot rang out, and the crowd went crazy. Everyone was screaming at once, moving a dozen different directions, colliding and fighting with one another. Despite all the movement, no one was getting anywhere. It was a frenzied crowd. Men, women, and children panicked. Loving felt bad about creating terror in these terror-filled times, but his actions had the desired effect. Now there was far too much activity for the assassins to get a clear shot. Pretty Boy might not care if he hit a stray bystander or two, but apparently he drew the line at wholesale slaughter.
Good. Keeping a crowd packed tightly around him, Loving managed to slide down the passageway until he was out of sight of the balcony. He ran up another flight of stairs, but instead of crossing to the trains moving in the opposite direction, he kept going to the street level.
Loving emerged gasping, desperate for air. He looked both ways down the street, then above to the rooftops. As far as he could tell, he’d lost the assassins. But how could he be sure? And what if he was still within the snipers’ range?
He leaned against the wall, trying to slow his heart, trying to get a grip on himself, wiping the sweat from his brow. Twice now he’d managed to escape what looked like certain death. How long could he realistically expect to keep this up? He had to find out what was going on, and not just for Thaddeus Roush’s sake—for his own sake as well.
Loving limped to the corner until he could read the street sign by the poor illumination provided by a nearby lamp.
He had to laugh. Maybe it was just the emotional release that follows periods of great anxiety, or a final kick of adrenaline, but he found himself laughing and crying all at once, so hard his sides shook.
He’d ended up exactly where he’d been planning to go in the first place. Even the right city block.
He’d have to remember to send Pretty Boy and Max a thank-you note for helping him find his destination. He was usually so poor with directions.
And then a thought hit him, one that sent shivers right up his spine.
Was it possible the killers already knew where he was going? Is that why they were able to have a sniper in place before he got there?
Loving raced down the remainder of the street, even though his side and his sore leg ached, until he found the number he wanted. He ran up the short porch steps and down the hall to a door and peered through the window at what appeared to be the backstage of a small auditorium. What kind of criminal operation took place here? he wondered. Drugs? Is that what this case was about? Is that why someone was so determined to kill him—to protect his stash? Maybe the place had been converted into a bordello. Maybe some kind of gambling ring. A gangland hideout.