chest where the pulse weapon had chewed through clothing and flesh and bone.
You’re in safe hands.
“I’m sorry, kid,” was all he could say.
Duran got back to his feet, reeling. Where was the killer? Where was Deimona? Had he backtracked along the alley and headed back toward Feng’s?
Duran heard that scuffling sound again and then a muffled scream from above. Looking up, he could see the terrified face of one of the citizens at their window, and not far away the form of a man scaling the wall. As the light from the apartment fell across him, Duran saw the unmistakable dragon tattoos on the man’s arm. Deimona.
Duran brought up his weapon, but Deimona reached the roof and swung out of sight before he could take the shot.
Damn! What is this guy? Part mountain goat?
Duran got moving again. He ran at full speed , one eye on the path before him and the other on the rooftops. He saw Deimona leap between buildings, his powerful and muscular form bridging the distances with seeming effortlessness. Duran knew that he would lose him if he stayed at ground level, so he burst through the door of the next building he came to, past a startled cleaning woman with a blue handkerchief tied around her hair, up the stairs to the first floor. His strides only got longer, and on the second floor a wide-eyed old man hobbled so quickly back inside his apartment that he almost fell over.
The third floor went past, then the fourth. Duran’s lungs were about to explode.
He reached the exit to the roof and plunged through the doorway, spotting Deimona two buildings over, striding out and about to make another jump.
He was too fast, too powerful, and Duran was breathing heavily from the climb. He’d never catch him.
Duran dropped to one knee, brought up his .40-cal and steadied himself, one eye squeezed shut.
I’m finished if this guy gets away.
He couldn’t make this shot. It was an impossible shot. There was no way…
Deimona jumped and Duran’s gun snarled. The fugitive cried out, spinning and twisting in the air, and then he dropped out of sight as the echoing sound of the gunshot disappeared into the distance.
Duran choked back his own sense of surprise and disbelief. Had he actually just seen that? Had he actually just knocked Deimona out of the air like a clay pigeon at a shooting competition?
He scampered back down through the building and over to the street where Deimona had fallen, wondering what he would find. Surely it had been a ruse, a clever ploy by Deimona to throw Duran off his track.
Deimona had probably doubled back and already disappeared into the gloom, leaving Duran to chase after this red herring.
But sure enough, when Duran reached the spot he found the man with the tattooed arms lying there on the asphalt surrounded by a pool of blood. Wary citizens of Juncture Nine were beginning to appear in their doorways, curious now that the furore seemed to have quietened down, their faces peeking out from yellow cracks and over the lips of windowsills as they craned their necks for a better view of the carnage.
Duran stood over Deimona’s body and checked for a pulse, but he was dead. It was over. In the half-light he could see a wet patch, a gunshot wound in Deimona’s chest.
“Right through the goddamn heart,” Duran said, dazed. He glanced down at the pistol in his hand as if it were a magic wand, an enigma whose power he’d been blind to until now.
He’d been saved by a miracle.
Maybe this is the turning point for Alec Duran , he thought, allowing himself to feel a tiny bud of hope. In moment s it began to blossom, the self-confidence that he’d owned so long ago grudgingly re awakening inside of him. The kind of confidence he’d found in such abundance before things had gone bad at the Atrium.
People began to crowd around and Duran holstered his weapon.
“You bastards are never going to give up, are you?” he said quietly to the dead
You’re in safe hands.
“I’m sorry, kid,” was all he could say.
Duran got back to his feet, reeling. Where was the killer? Where was Deimona? Had he backtracked along the alley and headed back toward Feng’s?
Duran heard that scuffling sound again and then a muffled scream from above. Looking up, he could see the terrified face of one of the citizens at their window, and not far away the form of a man scaling the wall. As the light from the apartment fell across him, Duran saw the unmistakable dragon tattoos on the man’s arm. Deimona.
Duran brought up his weapon, but Deimona reached the roof and swung out of sight before he could take the shot.
Damn! What is this guy? Part mountain goat?
Duran got moving again. He ran at full speed , one eye on the path before him and the other on the rooftops. He saw Deimona leap between buildings, his powerful and muscular form bridging the distances with seeming effortlessness. Duran knew that he would lose him if he stayed at ground level, so he burst through the door of the next building he came to, past a startled cleaning woman with a blue handkerchief tied around her hair, up the stairs to the first floor. His strides only got longer, and on the second floor a wide-eyed old man hobbled so quickly back inside his apartment that he almost fell over.
The third floor went past, then the fourth. Duran’s lungs were about to explode.
He reached the exit to the roof and plunged through the doorway, spotting Deimona two buildings over, striding out and about to make another jump.
He was too fast, too powerful, and Duran was breathing heavily from the climb. He’d never catch him.
Duran dropped to one knee, brought up his .40-cal and steadied himself, one eye squeezed shut.
I’m finished if this guy gets away.
He couldn’t make this shot. It was an impossible shot. There was no way…
Deimona jumped and Duran’s gun snarled. The fugitive cried out, spinning and twisting in the air, and then he dropped out of sight as the echoing sound of the gunshot disappeared into the distance.
Duran choked back his own sense of surprise and disbelief. Had he actually just seen that? Had he actually just knocked Deimona out of the air like a clay pigeon at a shooting competition?
He scampered back down through the building and over to the street where Deimona had fallen, wondering what he would find. Surely it had been a ruse, a clever ploy by Deimona to throw Duran off his track.
Deimona had probably doubled back and already disappeared into the gloom, leaving Duran to chase after this red herring.
But sure enough, when Duran reached the spot he found the man with the tattooed arms lying there on the asphalt surrounded by a pool of blood. Wary citizens of Juncture Nine were beginning to appear in their doorways, curious now that the furore seemed to have quietened down, their faces peeking out from yellow cracks and over the lips of windowsills as they craned their necks for a better view of the carnage.
Duran stood over Deimona’s body and checked for a pulse, but he was dead. It was over. In the half-light he could see a wet patch, a gunshot wound in Deimona’s chest.
“Right through the goddamn heart,” Duran said, dazed. He glanced down at the pistol in his hand as if it were a magic wand, an enigma whose power he’d been blind to until now.
He’d been saved by a miracle.
Maybe this is the turning point for Alec Duran , he thought, allowing himself to feel a tiny bud of hope. In moment s it began to blossom, the self-confidence that he’d owned so long ago grudgingly re awakening inside of him. The kind of confidence he’d found in such abundance before things had gone bad at the Atrium.
People began to crowd around and Duran holstered his weapon.
“You bastards are never going to give up, are you?” he said quietly to the dead
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