the first shots had washed out Michaels's vision some, and-Ventura
didn't stop to examine the pair he'd shot; he took off at a run,
straight to the street.
Michaels scrambled from under the bushes and followed, but he stayed
crouched, using cover. He did not want Ventura to look back and see
him, no, not after that display. Not only was the man a killer, he was
expert at it. To take out two men with guns already pointed at you?
That was either great skill or great luck, and Michaels didn't want to
test either.
Lights started to go on in houses along the street. They probably
didn't get a lot of gunfire up here on a weeknight.
No, probably not.
Michaels ran on the darker side of the street, and he had his taser in
his hand. He hoped he wouldn't have to get close enough to Ventura to
have to use it.
Ventura smiled to himself as he ran. He did a tactical reload,
changing magazines, dropping the one missing three shots into his
windbreaker pocket. Those had probably been Chinese agents--feds would
have yelled out their ID, and there would have been more of them.
Speed was the most important thing now. Gunfire in a quiet
neighborhood would wake people up, somebody'd call the police, and even
if they were slow, it would only be a few minutes before cops got here.
He'd have a little while longer before the locals unraveled things,
enough time to get clear of the city, but he had to figure they might
have spotted him earlier, noticed his car, so a different vehicle was
going to be necessary. The sooner he found one, the better.
He was going to have to get rid of this Coonan, too--he hadn't had time
to stop and pick up his expended brass here, and this gun already had
two shootings on it, in Alaska and in California. Under better
circumstances, he would have dropped the pistol into a lake or ocean
after the first time he'd used it, but there simply hadn't been time.
Only a fool would hold on to something that would get him the death
penalty if he was caught with it. He had other guns, and as soon as he
could get to them, he'd lose this one.
There was an old pickup truck parked on the street half a block ahead
of him. That would do. He could break the window, get inside, crack
the ignition for a hot-wire, be gone in another two minutes.
He glanced behind him. No sign of pursuit, no men chasing him with
guns. Maybe those were the only two.
Maybe.
But even as he ran, that part of him that feasted on danger grinned and
smacked its chops, looking for more.
There was nothing like an adrenaline rush, the immediate sense of
danger and possible death. He should be afraid, but what he felt was
closer to orgasm than fear. He had the prize, he was on his way,
enemies were down. All around him, life was crystalline, razor-sharp,
throbbing with triumph.
He lived, they died.
It didn't get any better than this.
Here was the truck. Try the door--hah! not even locked! He reached
