“It’s moving toward us,” said Nikki.
Gradually, smoothly, the drone decreased altitude and floated gracefully, passing over the hexagonal-brick-paved plaza surrounding the fountain until, about ten yards away from them, it slowed, maintained its position, then drifted forward. Rook sang the five-note signature motive from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, eliciting an appreciative guffaw from Backhouse. The drone’s four small rotors sizzled in the air, maintaining a steady, measured course as the quadcopter progressed toward them. “It likes you,” said Rook. Indeed, Wilton Backhouse’s enthusiasm for the drone was not only contagious but magnetic. The craft settled at eye level and moved within feet of him, then hovered there.
That was when Heat’s fascination turned to alarm. Beside a camera lens she saw what looked like the muzzle of a small-caliber weapon fastened to the bottom of the drone, and it was aimed right at the whistle-blower’s forehead.
“Gun!” she called. Rook instinctively whipped his head from side to side, scanning the park for a shooter. Backhouse, still mesmerized, held his gaze on the drone. Heat broke his geeky trance with a hard shove and a leg sweep to the back of his knees. He howled in alarm as he went down. His yell was punctuated by the sharp crack of a .22 round fired from the quadcopter and the unmistakable sound of a bullet ricocheting off the wrought iron fence behind them.
They landed in a tangle. Surprised and disoriented, Backhouse began to curse and push Heat off him; meanwhile, she was trying to reach her gun, but his flailing arms were in her way. Rook, still on his feet, tried to make sense of the scene. Heat hollered, “The drone! It’s armed. It’s shooting.” Nikki gave Backhouse a push and rolled clear of him, coming up with her Sig Sauer braced, but the drone had pulled back and twenty yards to one side. Her shot would have been in line with the crowd of protesters. A miss, or even a hit that ended up as a through-and-through, could easily strike a bystander. She holstered her piece, clawed a handful of Wilton Backhouse’s tee, and pulled him with her. “Run.”
But when Heat and Rook ran right, he tried to go left, some primal instinct telling him to beat it back to his cave—in this case, his university office. “Wilton, don’t!” she called. “Too open.” He halted, assessed the clear air space between him and Thompson Street, heard the buzz of the quadcopter coming back for another pass, and followed Nikki.
“There’s cover under those trees,” said Rook, not waiting, quickly cutting a turn east, away from the fountain. The other two fell in with him, racing along the walkway, all of them stealing panicked glances back over their shoulders at the drone, which continued to follow them, locked in with unnerving menace.
“Zigzag,” said Heat. “Be a moving target.”
They wove from side to side, scrambling around an undergrad—probably an NYU music major—in a tux jacket, jeans, and Chuck Taylors, pounding out Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 2 on an upright he had parked in the center of the walkway. The kid was so lost in the music, he never noticed the downdraft from the aircraft rustling the dollar bills in his tip jar as it relentlessly followed its prey.
Rook had been right; the overhanging sycamore limbs challenged the drone’s navigational ability and, by the time they reached Garibaldi’s statue, the drone had slowed as it tentatively sought a lower altitude—at least for the moment.
Heat still felt too exposed. She pointed to a nearby food cart offering stainless steel for protection and a wide green-and-white umbrella for camouflage. “The vendor,” she said.