The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme 10)

The Chinese takeout she'd ordered was sitting on the cobblestones and she was in a combat shooting stance: feet planted parallel, toes pointed at your enemy, leaning forward slightly with gun hand gripping hard, other hand cradling the trigger guard for stability. Your dominant arm stiff; if the muscles aren't taut the recoil might not eject the spent shell and chamber another. A jam can mean death. You and your gun have to be partners.

Come on, Sachs thought to her adversary. Come on, present! This was, of course, Unsub 516. She knew it wasn't Barry Shales, the sniper; he was still under surveillance by Lon Sellitto's team.

Several times today she'd noticed a light-colored sedan--first, near Henry Cross's office building on Chambers Street. Then on the drive here and again fifteen minutes ago. She hadn't seen the car clearly but it was likely the same one that had been following her from Tash Farada's house in Queens.

Noting the car pull into a space at the end of the block, she'd debated how to handle it. To call Central Dispatch or to approach him by herself on the street might have precipitated a firefight, a bad idea in this densely populated area.

So she'd decided to take him in the cul-de-sac. She'd bought the Chinese takeout to give him a chance to spot her. Before leaving, she'd slipped her weapon into the bag. Then she'd started across the street, careful not to present a target, and into the cul-de-sac, apparently focusing on her order but actually sensing from her periphery when the man would make his move.

She'd hurried to the bend in the cul-de-sac, aware that the car was approaching then stopping. At that point she'd turned, dropped the food and gripped her weapon.

Now she was waiting for the target to present.

Would he drive farther in? Probably not. Too easy to get blocked in, if a delivery or moving truck showed up.

Was he out of the car and moving fast toward her?

Palms dry, both eyes open--you never squint when you shoot. And you focus on two things only: your target and the front sight of your weapon. Forget the blade sight at the back of the receiver. You can't bring everything into definition.

Come on!

Breathing steadily.

Where was he? Prowling forward, about to leap around the corner and drop into his own shooting stance?

Or what if he'd anticipated she was on to him? He might have grabbed a passerby to shove into the cul-de-sac as a distraction. Or use him or her as a shield, hoping that Sachs would react and shoot the innocent.

Inhale, exhale, inhale...

Did she hear a v

oice? A soft cry?

What was that? Easing forward, Sachs crept toward the other leg of the L. Paused, flattened against the brick.

Where the hell was he? Was his weapon up too, pointed at exactly the spot where she'd appear if she stepped forward?

Okay, go. Just go low and get ready to shoot. Watch your backdrop.

One...two...

Now!

Sachs leapt into the main part of the cul-de-sac, gun up, and dropped into a crouch.

Which is when her left knee gave out completely.

Before she got a clear look at where the unsub might be waiting for her, she tumbled sideways onto the cobblestones, managing to lift her finger off the trigger before she pulled off a random round or two. Amelia Sachs rolled once and lay stunned, a perfect target.

Even her vision had deserted her. Tears from the pain.

But she forced herself to ignore the agony and scrabbled into a prone position, gun muzzle aimed down the cul-de-sac, where Unsub 516 would be coming for her. Aiming at her. Sending hollow-point bullets into her.

Except that he wasn't.

She blinked the moisture from her eyes, then wiped them fiercely with her sleeve.

Empty. The cul-de-sac was empty. Five sixteen was gone.