She ran to the street's center line, sensing Allen behind her. Cars had stopped in both directions as bank customers and office workers milled about on the far side of the street. Heat radiated from the blacktop. Beads of perspiration sprang out on her forehead, her upper lip.
"Get out now!" she yelled.
The crowd, noticing the big man somehow stuck in the doomed building, joined in. Shouts rang out: "Come on, man!" "Get out!" "Jump!"
But the second floor was too high above the concrete pavement.
"He's in the bank, Stephen!" Allen called. "The killer!"
Stephen's face changed from confusion to concern. He began assessing his options. He eyed the arching fabric canopy jutting out from an expensive perfume shop next door.
"Hang from the ledge! Hang and fall! Now, Stephen, now!"
He nodded and immediately swung his leg through the opening. The crowd roared its approval. Crouching on the ledge, facing the window, he assessed the distance down, scanned the edge for handholds. His right hand clutched an envelope. He began to lower himself from the ledge when a shadow flashed in the room behind him. Wood and glass exploded over him. A fist shot out, grabbing hold of the hair on top of his head. Stephen jerked his head around, tethered to the fist. He wrenched his head back hard and lunged away from the window as far as his arms would stretch. A black arm and fist came out of the window, missing his face by inches.
Julia pulled in her breath. The fist bore hard spikes in the black knuckles—the killer was wearing the gauntlet she had retrieved from her mangled dashboard. Her hand dropped down to the gym bag hanging at her side. Through its nylon walls, she felt it, solid as a fossilized arm.
Another gauntlet!
This assailant was not merely similar to the one she'd seen killed; he was precisely the same.
She drew her pistol and watched as Stephen kicked off of the building, flying backward.
forty-one
The gauntlet had not missed Stephen's face. He felt it nick his brow. Warm liquid stung his eye. The black fist retreated, pistoning back for another strike. If the assailant leaned out, the fist would reach his head.
Stephen released his grasp on the window frame, focused all his strength into his legs, and pushed out, cranking his body sideways as he did. The arm crashed through the remaining glass, reaching for him. Pellets of glass hit his face, flew past him. The attacker's head and shoulders leaned out of the window. He had chiseled features, a twisted mouth, blazing green eyes behind nerdy glasses.
Stephen hit the canopy with a great wbup! His left shoulder caught a rib of the iron frame; the awning buckled, following the downward momentum of his body. Pain flashed up his side into his jaw. Maroon canvas enveloped him, closing out the sky above. He slammed to a stop. He thought he'd hit the pavement, then realized he was cradled in a hammock of fabric, rocking slowly. He scrambled to break free, probing for the ground with his foot. He found it, not far away, and spilled out onto it. His shoulder radiated lightning bolts of pain, and his arm felt numb to the elbow. He realized he was still holding the envelope of cash. He shoved it into his back pocket.
In the street to his left, Julia crouched in a target-shooting stance, holding her pistol in both hands and pointing it, lock-armed, at the window above. Stephen turned to look, saw nothing.
"This way!" Julia yelled, pointing in a direction that would cause him to cross in front of the bank. Her eyes never left the shattered window.
He hesitated, puzzled. She had approached the cafe from the opposite direction. Then it came to him: the crowd he'd only half noticed from the window had grown exponentially in the brief time it took him to make it down to the street. Gawking people stood at least ten deep in a wide semicircle, of which the bank was the epicenter. But no one dared to approach the area in front of the bank or the sidewalk for thirty yards on either side; Julia had chosen the path of least resistance.
Allen darted past her, toward the end of the block. That was enough to prompt Stephen to run as well. Julia moved sideways fast, keeping the gun poised at the window. She joined Stephen on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the bank from the canopied store.
The crowd made a sharp sound as if they were catching their breath all at the same time, apparently seeing something that was out of Stephen's view.
Another window above him erupted.
As the first fragments of debris struck his head, Stephen grabbed Julia's arm, pitching her forward, away from the destruction.
Then it came: big and heavy, smashing into the pavement behind him.
He swung around. A body was crumpled low, covered in glass and wood chips. For a moment, he was certain the assailant had hurled somebody through the window, hoping to crush Stephen. Then the shoulders moved, shaking off the debris. A face turned up to him. it was his attacker. He rose, shedding glass. Blood trickled from cuts in his forehead and cheek.
Stephen assessed the situation, realized that running was pointless. The man would overtake them all with predatory ease.
Stephen took a step back and opened his arms, a gesture of peace. "What is this, man?" he asked.
The assailant grinned, humorless and cold. But it was his eyes that convinced Stephen: he was here to kill. Nothing was going to stop him.
Nothing but me, Stephen thought.
He brought his left leg forward and shifted his hips back over his right leg—a hu kool chase stance. He was ready to kick or defend.
"Stephen!" It was Julia. "I got him. Get out of the way!"
The killer moved in, thrusting his armored fist forward, cat-quick.
Stephen parried the blow with an upward sweep of his left forearm. The impact was like slamming into a car bumper, but he succeeded in knocking the fist off course. Even before their arms made contact, Stephen's right arm sailed forward, the heel of his palm aiming for the spot between the nose and upper lip. A well-placed blow would cause incapacitating pain.
He never made contact.
As if time skipped a few beats, the killer was gripping Stephen's wrist, stopping the locomotion power of his hand two inches before its target.
The assailant glared at Stephen, inches from his face. Stephen saw nothing in his opponent's countenance but animal fury. Then the killer twisted his lips into what might pass as a smile in certain demonic circles and nodded. The gesture said Touche.
"We don't have to do this," Stephen said through clenched teeth. He knew they did, but deep inside, he remembered the last time he had battled; his conscience didn't want to be here.
The assailant pulled down fiercely on Stephen's arm, bringing his knee up at the same time, calculated to shatter the radius and ulna.
Anticipating the motion, Stephen swiveled his hips. The blow struck him hard on the thigh. Turning his defensive movement into an offensive one, Stephen swung his leg between them, then around his opponent's side. He yanked his leg back. It collided with the killer's leg, on which all his weight rested. His mind jumped ahead, working through the motions he'd make as his opponent hit the ground.
Which he never did.
Normally, a man will protect himself in a fall by swinging his arms toward the ground; but the killer never released Stephen's right wrist. Instead, he used it to hold himself up and pivot around with the force of Stephen's kick. Before Stephen realized what was happening, the killer's back was to him, and he felt himself pulled by his arm over the killer's head. He collided with the sidewalk. He sensed movement over him and rolled. The gauntlet smashed into the pavement where his face had been, kicking up rock chips and a quick plume of concrete dust.