because he had lost nearly all of his peripheral vision.
The fuel tank of the Lexus. The vehicle was engulfed, reduced to just
the black skeleton of a car enwrapped by greedy tongues of fire that
stripped it of its lustrous emerald paint, fine leather upholstery, and
other plush appointments.
The blue door remained closed.
The revolver seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. His arms ached. He
couldn't hold the weapon steady. Could barely hold it at all.
He wanted to lie down and close his eyes. Sleep a little. Dream a
little dream green pastures, wildflowers, a blue sky, the city long
forgotten.
When he looked down at his leg, he discovered he was standing in a pool
of blood. An artery must have been nicked, maybe torn, and he was
going fast, dizzy just from looking down, nausea swelling anew, a
trembling in his gut.
Fire on the roof. He could hear it overhead, distinctly different from
the crackle and roar of the blaze in front of the station, shingles
popping, rafters creaking as construction joints were tortured by the
fierce, dry heat.
They might have only seconds before the ceiling exploded into flames or
caved in on them.
He didn't understand how he could be getting colder by the moment when
fire was all around them. The sweat streaming down his face was like
ice water.
Even if the roof didn't cave in for a couple of minutes, he might be
dead or too weak to pull the trigger when at last the killer rushed
them. He couldn't wait any longer.
He had to give up the two-hand grip on the gun. He needed his left
hand to brace himself against the For mica top of the counter as he
circled the end of it, keeping all weight off his left leg.
But when he reached the end of the counter, he was too dizzy to hop the
ten or twelve feet to the blue door. He had to use the toe of his left
foot as a balance point, applying the minimum pressure required to stay
erect as he hitched across the office.
Surprisingly, the pain was bearable. Then he realized it was tolerable
only because his leg was going numb. A cool tingle coursed through the
limb from hip to ankle. Even the wound itself was no longer hot, not
even warm.
The door. His left hand on the knob looked so far away, as if he were
peering at it through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.
Revolver in the right hand. Hanging down at his side. Like a massive
dumbbell.
The effort required to raise the weapon caused his stomach to keel over
on itself repeatedly.
The killer might be waiting on the other side, watching the knob, so
Jack pushed the door open and went through it fast, the revolver thrust
out in front of him. He stumbled, almost fell, and stepped past the
door, swinging the gun right and left, heart pounding so hard it jolted
his weakening arms, but there was no target. He could see all the way
