Fast.
When you move, they can't getcha ...
She pushed through the door, swinging the muzzle right and left.
This floor was deserted, devoted mostly to infrastructure and storerooms, it seemed.
She kept swiveling, right, left. Because in the back of her mind was the persistent thought that maybe this wasn't an escape at all. Maybe it was a trap. Maybe he was hiding here to kill a pursuer.
She remembered the line from the book Serial Cities, about Rhyme: Experts in law enforcement universally voice the opinion of Lincoln Rhyme that his greatest skill was his ability to anticipate what the criminals he's pursuing will do next.
Maybe Unsub 11-5 was anticipating too.
Terry Dobyns had also suggested that he might target the police.
As her eyes oriented to the dimness, she examined the corridor. He couldn't go to the left - that was a dead end. To the right, a sign announced, was the tunnel that led to the doctors' office building.
He could either escape that way ... or lie in wait for her.
But nothing to do other than go for it.
Knuckle time ...
She started in that direction.
Suddenly a figure appeared in front of her, coming down the tunnel. She paused, plastered herself against the wall, aiming her weapon high but in the general direction of the man.
'Hey,' he called. 'I can see you there. You police?'
A large African American dressed in a black rent-a-cop security outfit - more intimidating than an NYPD uniform - walked closer. 'I can see you! Officer.'
She whispered harshly, 'Come here! Get under cover. We've got a perp somewhere.'
He joined her and they both pressed against the wall.
'Amelia.'
'I'm Leron.' The man had quick eyes and he took in the hallway. 'I heard a ten-thirteen.'
'Heard?'
'Gotta scanner.'
'Backup's on their way?'
'Right.'
She noted he had a Beretta Nano on his hip, a small gun, 9mm, and accurate enough under good conditions if you mastered the long trigger pull. Unusual for a hospital guard to be armed. She noted that he hadn't drawn it. No need, no target. This explained him.
'You were in?' she asked.
'Nineteenth.'
One of the Upper East Side precincts.
'Patrol. Retired, medical. Diabetes. That sucks. Keep your weight down.' He was breathing hard. 'Not that you--'
'You came from the doctors' office building?'