hypnotically fascinating inferno, and focused his narrowed field of
vision on the soft-drink machines at the corner of the station. The
killer was standing there, as if oblivious of the destruction he had
wrought, feeding coins into the first of the two vending machines.
Two more discarded cans of Pepsi lay on the asphalt behind him. The
Micro Uzi was in his left hand, at his side, muzzle pointing at the
pavement. He slammed the flat of his fist against one of the buttons
on the selection board.
Feebly shoving the woman away, Jack whispered, 'Get down!'
He turned clumsily toward the killer, swaying, barely able to remain on
his feet.
The can of soda clattered into the delivery tray. The gunman leaned
forward, squinting, then cursed again.
Shuddering violently, Jack struggled to raise his revolver. It seemed
to be shackled to the ground on a short length of chain, requiring him
to lift the entire world in order to bring the weapon high enough to
aim.
Aware of him, responding with an arrogant leisureliness, the psychopath
in the expensive suit turned and advanced a couple of steps, bringing
up his own weapon.
Jack squeezed off a shot. He was so weak, the recoil knocked him
backward and off his feet.
The killer loosed a burst of six or eight rounds.
Jack was already falling out of the line of fire. As bullets cut the
air over his head, he fired another shot, and then a third as he
crumpled onto the blacktop.
Incredibly, the third round slammed the killer in the chest and pitched
him backward into the vending machine. He bounced off the machine and
dropped onto his knees. He was badly hurt, perhaps mortally wounded,
his white silk shirt turning red as swiftly as a trick scarf
transformed by a magician's deft hands, but he wasn't dead yet, and he
still had the Micro Uzi.
The sirens were extremely loud. Help was nearly at hand, but it was
probably going to come too late.
A blast of thunder breached a dam in the sky, and torrents of icy rain
suddenly fell by the megaton.
With an effort that nearly caused him to black out, Jack sat up and
clasped his revolver in both hands. He squeezed off a shot that was
wide of the mark.
The recoil induced a muscle spasm in his arms. All the strength went
out of his hands, and he lost his grip on the revolver, which clattered
onto the blacktop between his spread legs.
The killer loosed two-three-four shots, and Jack took two hits in the
chest.
He was knocked flat. The back of his skull bounced painfully off the
pavement.
He tried to sit up again. He could only raise his head, and not far,
just far enough to see that the killer had gone down after squeezing
off that last barrage, facedown on the blacktop. The round in the
