Laser sight.
He threw himself to the right as the shot came. It hit the metal bench with a sickening ricochet and hummed off into the darkness. D’Agosta fell into the flower bed, rolled clumsily, and rose on his knees in firing position. He saw a dark shape moving fast against the dimness of the open grass and fired—once, twice—rolled to the side, rose to his feet, and took off running again, cursing himself for not having kept up with his shooting practice. But even missed shots had a good effect—making them careful, slowing them down. At least that was the theory. He passed the far side of the garden and ducked in among the trees.
Another jiggling red dot. He threw himself to the asphalt as the shot came, rolled, tearing his knee open against the pavement, and was up again and running. The shooters were using some big-caliber sidearms and knew what they were doing. His own shots hadn’t slowed them down at all.
These guys were professional assassins.
He ran through a playground, desperately leaping first the teeter-totter, then the sandbox, and across a small square with a fountain, gasping with the effort. Jeez, he was out of shape, gone to seed. Long gone were the days in the police gym, keeping trim and fit.
He cut across a small square with a fountain, jumped a stone parapet, and was back on the steep, woodsy embankment leading down to the highway. He crouched behind the stone wall, waiting. They would have to cross the open walkway. That’s when he’d have a shot at them. He held the weapon tightly in a two-hand combat grip, steadied himself, tried to get control of his wild breathing. Don’t squeeze the trigger. When it goes off, it should almost be a surprise. Make every shot count.
Now! The dark shapes emerged from the trees, moving fast. He fired: once, twice, thrice.
The red lights were dancing around the branches over his head, and he screamed an obscenity as he forgot his own careful advice and fired again and again at the dim shapes. He could hear nothing over the bark of his firearm, but he could feel the slap of bullets hitting the stone right before his face. These bastards didn’t miss a beat.
He, on the other hand, had missed by a mile, and no wonder. He hadn’t taken a turn at the range in three damn years, and his shooting was as old and stale as all those shooting awards that hung on his wall.
He scrambled back from the stone wall, running along it in a low crouch, praying his back wasn’t exposed. As he ran, he popped the clip from the gun, peering at it in the dim light. Empty. That left him only two shots in the chamber . . . thirteen rounds wasted.
Suddenly he saw something come into view through the trees up ahead: the bridge over the 110th Street off-ramp. The whole thing was chain-linked like a cage. If he got caught in there, he’d be the proverbial fish in a barrel.
But turning back—jumping back over the stone wall and crossing the open walkway—meant running right into the arms of his pursuers. And that would be suicide.
He glanced down to his right. There was only one other choice. It was the highway or nothing. Get out on the West Side Highway, stop traffic, create a snarl, radio for help. They wouldn’t pursue him or shoot at him out there.
Without waiting to reconsider, he charged down the steep embankment, clawing through the brambles and sumac and poison ivy, half falling, half rolling. The branches tore cruelly through the fabric of his uniform, and the sharp rocks of the embankment bruised his shoulders and knees.
Whang! sounded the shot.
Ahead, the embankment dropped away steeply. He fell, rolled as far as he could, forced himself back onto his feet, and began running again, casting one brief look back. He could hear them crashing through the brush not thirty feet above him. In desperation, he wheeled, squeezed off a shot at the closest figure. It ducked to the side, then charged forward again. D’Agosta turned and ran with all his might. His heart was racing dangerously. The rush of cars was suddenly louder, the lights flashing through the trees, flashing on him for a moment.
Whang! Whang!
He ducked, zigzagged. The highway was just fifty feet ahead. The headlights were now flashing across him, making a clear target.
Thirty more feet. The trees were thinning, giving way to garbage and weeds.
Whang!
The embankment leveled out. Twenty more feet to the edge of the trees and the highway. He ran flat out, making a beeline—