The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

"Boyd! Drop the weapon!"

His response was to fire five or six shots toward the door. Sachs responded with one shot, which struck the car body inches from him, then she rolled to her right and rose fast, noting that Boyd was fleeing from her into the street beyond.

She could see the backdrop this time--a brick wall across the far street--and squeezed off another round.

But just as the gun fired, Boyd turned aside as if he'd been expecting this. The slug sailed past him, also inches away. He returned fire, a barrage of shots, and she dropped hard to the slimy cobblestones again, her radio shattering. He disappeared around the corner, to the left.

One shot left. Should've used only one on the tire, she thought angrily, as she rose and hurried after him as best she could on the painful leg. A pause at the corner where the alley met the sidewalk, a fast glance to the left. She saw his solid form sprinting away from her.

She grabbed the Motorola and pressed transmit. Nope, it was gone. Shit. Call 911 on the cell? Too much to explain, too little time to relay a message. Somebody in one of the buildings had to've called in about the shots. She continued after Boyd, breath rasping, feet slapping on the ground.

At the far intersection, the end of the block, a blue-and-white rolled to a stop. The officers didn't climb out; they hadn't heard the shots and didn't know the killer and Sachs were here. Boyd looked up and saw them. He stopped fast and leapt over a small fence then ducked underneath the stairway of an apartment building leading to the first floor. She heard kicking as he tried to break into the basement apartment.

Sachs waved toward the officers but they were looking up and down the cross street and didn't see her.

It was then that a young couple stepped out the front door of the apartment directly across from Boyd. Closing the door behind them, the young man zipped up his vest against the chill day and the woman took his arm. They started down the stairs.

The kicking stopped.

Oh, no . . . Sachs realized what was about to happen. She couldn't see Boyd but she knew what he was going to do. He was sighting on the couple now. He was going to shoot one or both, steal their keys and escape into the apartment--hoping again that the police would divide their forces to look after the wounded.

"Get down!" Sachs shouted.

Nearly a hundred feet away, the couple didn't hear.

Boyd would be drawing a target on them now, waiting for them to get closer.

"Get down!"

Sachs rose and limped toward them.

The couple noticed her but couldn't make out what she was saying. They paused, frowning.

"Get down!" she repeated.

The man cupped his hand behind his ear, shaking his head.

Sachs stopped, took a deep breath and fired her last bullet into a metal garbage can about twenty feet from the couple.

The woman screamed and they turned, scrabbling up the stairs into their apartment. The door slammed.

At least she'd managed to--

Beside Sachs a block of limestone exploded, pelting her with hot lead and bits of stone. A half second later she heard the loud pop of Boyd's gun.

Another shot and another, driving Sachs back, bullets striking feet from her. She stumbled through the yard, tripping over a foot-high wire edging fence and some plaster lawn ornaments, Bambis and elves. One slug grazed her vest, knocking the breath from her lungs. She went down hard in a planting bed. More slugs slammed home nearby. Boyd then turned toward the officers leaping out of their cruiser. He peppered the squad car with several rounds, flattening the tires and driving the officers to cover behind the car. The uniforms were staying put but at least they'd have called the assault in and other troops would be on the way.

r /> Which meant of course that there was only one way for Boyd to go--toward her. She hunkered down for cover behind some bushes. Boyd had stopped firing but she could hear his footsteps getting closer. He was twenty feet away, she guessed. Then ten. She was sure that at any minute she'd see his face, followed by the muzzle of his weapon. Then she'd die . . .

Thud.

Thud.

Rising on an elbow, she could see the killer, close, kicking at another basement-apartment door, which was slowly starting to give way. His face was eerily calm--like that of The Hanged Man in the tarot card he'd intended to leave beside Geneva Settle's body. He must've believed he'd hit Sachs because he ignored where she'd fallen and was concentrating on breaking through the doorway--the only escape route left. He looked behind him once or twice, toward the far end of the block, where the uniformed officers were making their way toward him--though slowly since he'd turn and fire at them occasionally.

He too would have to be out of ammo pretty soon, she figured. He probably--

Boyd ejected the clip from his pistol and slipped a new one in. Reloaded.