rickety stairs, swinging himself around the corner of each flight by pivoting on the inside handrail, a smudge of rust being driven deeper into his palm and fingers with each momentum-propelled turn. A ping of metal on metal ricocheted from somewhere near him. The bastard was still shooting at him. Jon instinctively lowered his head as he hurtled down the steps. Each time his feet hit the metal flooring, the rusting hulk creaked louder, seemed to lean further into the alley as its bolts were pulled from the brickwork. His footfalls crashed and echoed as he thundered down the derelict zigzag. Another ping, this one sending sparks from the handrail right next to Jon. Leaping down the last three stairs, he hit the final platform. The ladder was up, and one look at its rusted grooves told Jon that it wouldn’t lower in a hurry. And he didn’t have the time to fight with it, trying to get it to break free of its months or years of neglect.
Still ten feet above the ground, Jon scrambled from side-to-side on the bottom platform – mainly to find another, quicker way down, but the additional perk of presenting a moving target for the gunman above didn’t hurt either. He spotted a closed dumpster a few feet down the alley from the fire escape. Another ping, another spark. This time the shot had hit the ground right where Jon would have been standing had he continued his stride before he had halted to look at the dumpster. The dumpster had saved his life once simply by distracting him, he reasoned subconsciously in the span of milliseconds. Perhaps jumping onto it might provide a more long-term salvation.
Another ping, this one hitting the floor of the level just above him, right over his head. It was now or never. He got a running start of a few steps, grabbed the rusty metal railing with both hands, hoisted himself over, and flew downward, fearing both a bullet from above and a broken ankle or leg from below. He received neither. As soon as Jon hit the lid of the dumpster, he collapsed his legs and let his momentum carry him into a somersault. Relieved that his move actually worked – on his first try and while wearing the backpack that he had all but forgotten about in the excitement – he heard a crack from just behind him as a bullet penetrated the thick hardened plastic of the lid. Reaching the edge of the dumpster, he rolled off, landed on his feet, and hit the ground running, bobbing and weaving as he ran in an effort to throw off the gunman’s aim. One more bullet hit the ground behind him as he kept flying down the alleyway until he reached the corner of the building.
He turned, briefly, in mid-stride, to see if his attacker was following him down the fire escape. The gunman was still in Michael’s apartment, his upper body stuck out the window Jon had exited from, loading another magazine into his pistol. Even from that distance, Jon could see the fanatical look in the man’s eyes, a look he wouldn’t soon forget. And then the look changed to one of intense concentration as the gunman extended his arms and aimed his pistol at Jon.
A split-second later, the muzzle flashed and a shard of brick exploded from the corner of the building. But Jon had already darted around the corner and down the street.
Chapter 10
Enrique Ramirez cursed in Spanish, then pulled himself back into the apartment. With his good hand, he pulled the window closed, and latched it shut. There was no use going after the guy now. He had too much of a head start, and Enrique wouldn’t be able to keep pace with the bleeding wound in his side. With his tongue, he probed the inside of his mouth, sweeping around the teeth on the right side of his jaw, trying to find the source of the blood he tasted. No teeth knocked loose or out, but the inside of his right cheek was raw where it had been sandwiched between knuckles and molars. He slowly made a fist with his right hand. It hurt like hell, but he hadn’t broken anything. Thank God. But it had
Still ten feet above the ground, Jon scrambled from side-to-side on the bottom platform – mainly to find another, quicker way down, but the additional perk of presenting a moving target for the gunman above didn’t hurt either. He spotted a closed dumpster a few feet down the alley from the fire escape. Another ping, another spark. This time the shot had hit the ground right where Jon would have been standing had he continued his stride before he had halted to look at the dumpster. The dumpster had saved his life once simply by distracting him, he reasoned subconsciously in the span of milliseconds. Perhaps jumping onto it might provide a more long-term salvation.
Another ping, this one hitting the floor of the level just above him, right over his head. It was now or never. He got a running start of a few steps, grabbed the rusty metal railing with both hands, hoisted himself over, and flew downward, fearing both a bullet from above and a broken ankle or leg from below. He received neither. As soon as Jon hit the lid of the dumpster, he collapsed his legs and let his momentum carry him into a somersault. Relieved that his move actually worked – on his first try and while wearing the backpack that he had all but forgotten about in the excitement – he heard a crack from just behind him as a bullet penetrated the thick hardened plastic of the lid. Reaching the edge of the dumpster, he rolled off, landed on his feet, and hit the ground running, bobbing and weaving as he ran in an effort to throw off the gunman’s aim. One more bullet hit the ground behind him as he kept flying down the alleyway until he reached the corner of the building.
He turned, briefly, in mid-stride, to see if his attacker was following him down the fire escape. The gunman was still in Michael’s apartment, his upper body stuck out the window Jon had exited from, loading another magazine into his pistol. Even from that distance, Jon could see the fanatical look in the man’s eyes, a look he wouldn’t soon forget. And then the look changed to one of intense concentration as the gunman extended his arms and aimed his pistol at Jon.
A split-second later, the muzzle flashed and a shard of brick exploded from the corner of the building. But Jon had already darted around the corner and down the street.
Chapter 10
Enrique Ramirez cursed in Spanish, then pulled himself back into the apartment. With his good hand, he pulled the window closed, and latched it shut. There was no use going after the guy now. He had too much of a head start, and Enrique wouldn’t be able to keep pace with the bleeding wound in his side. With his tongue, he probed the inside of his mouth, sweeping around the teeth on the right side of his jaw, trying to find the source of the blood he tasted. No teeth knocked loose or out, but the inside of his right cheek was raw where it had been sandwiched between knuckles and molars. He slowly made a fist with his right hand. It hurt like hell, but he hadn’t broken anything. Thank God. But it had
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