Page 30 of Lone Wolf

He left his feet, flinging himself down, pancaking to the gritty asphalt, head turned, ear mashed to the ground. He had time to shoot out a breath, forcing every last bit of oxygen from his lungs, collapsing his body like a bellows deflating.

And then it was upon him.

A roar like the wrath of God, fire and fury sweeping overhead, the hot reek of oil blasting down, his clothes snapping against his body hard enough that it seemed they might tear right off. A screech and a grind as the driver tried to swerve to catch him with a tire, but the girth of the car in the constrained alley allowed scant room for maneuvering.

All at once the world opened up again and there was light and a sky and air to breathe. The SUV had flown overhead with aeronautical thunder and was already rocketing away.

Head ringing, he came up and onto his feet, drawing his ARES and getting off a single shot before the truck hit the street and careened right. The back window absorbed the round, which clacked impotently, the safety glass popcorning.

An instant later two patrol cars whipped by the mouth of the alley, speeding after the Suburban. He heard a burst of automatic fire and then a crash. One of the patrol cars wobbled back into sight in reverse, windshield riddled and red. Drifting lethargically up a curb, it knocked a fire hydrant off its mount with alarming ease and freed a geyser of water into the undercarriage. The vehicle capped the torrent, forcing it to radiate outward like an atomic blast before the mushroom rise.

Evan turned and ran the other way up the alley, ARES swinging at his side. His senses felt misaligned, his breath thundering through him, dampening other sensations. As he passed the backs of the town houses, a tacked-up patrolman dove out of a rear door right on top of him, heel of his hand riding a holstered service pistol, crying, “Stop—wait—!”

Evan toggled back to nonlethal fight mode, ramming his ARES back into the appendix holster, freeing his hands just in time to catch the cop’s gun hand as it rose. A bong sau / lop sau trap locked up forearm and wrist, knocking the pistol free. The cop’s black-frame glasses made his eyes bulge; he was sturdy and bookish at once, Clark Kent on the juice.

Evan threw an elbow to the chin, not too hard, the cop staggering back, name tag flashing: GIBBONS. He snatched at Evan’s shirt, grabbing a flapping hem, magnetic buttons popping. Evan spun away and out of the shirt, Gibbons falling away with a fistful of fabric, his descent hastened by the weight of his gear. Gibbons’s pistol rasped in circles on the ground like a listless top and Evan kicked it across the alley and through the slender mouth of a storm drain. Wheezing and coughing, Gibbons rolled to his side, attempting to rise.

Evan stared at his shirt where it had fallen out of reach. He had to get it back on—he needed its facial-recognition-scrambling properties before Gibbons faced him squarely and captured him with his body cam.

Evan turned to lunge for it, but another tacked-up patrolman banged out of the rear door, stumbling sideways, pistol already drawn and rising. Evan was five meters away panting like a maniac, 1911 strapped to his sweat-glistening torso, an injured officer sprawled at his feet. The patrolman’s pistol was still coming north as if in slow motion, the bore now visible. An adrenalized terror flushed his face, pinking up a doughy nose and padded cheeks that still made him look like the teenage kid he’d been a few years prior.

Evan was too far away to engage in hand-to-hand, too close to run. The tiny lens of the cop’s body cam glinted, swinging around with the cop’s pivot, and Evan jerked to the side, inches ahead of its scope.

The most likely next occurrence was a bullet through Evan’s bare torso.

The muzzle almost level, the black circle of the bore waxing to full moon.

There were no good options left.

Evan quick-drew his ARES and shot the young cop in the chest.

17

Green-Screen Hero

Clutching his ribs, the cop left his boots, crashing back into the door he’d issued from. Face purpling, he stood propped against it, weapon tumbling to the side. Then he slid down to a slump, shuddering. Behind the door, sounds of commotion, officers darting to and fro, securing the building. Wouldn’t be long before they traced the gunfire to the alley.

Evan darted to the young cop, ripped his shirt open, and tore the body camera free, keeping his face clear.

He’d hit the standard-issue concealable bullet-resistant vest dead in the middle as he’d intended, denting the Kevlar. The greatest protection was around center mass, diffusing the pressure to avoid blunt-trauma injury, and he’d been careful to avoid impact over the heart.

Still the cop wasn’t breathing. Head lolling, spread lips quivering, no air moving in or out. The impact had knocked a few years off him; he looked even younger now, a high-school lineman with the wind knocked out of him. Sweat smeared his tight blond hair to his temples, terror emanating off him like heat. Evan shot a glance at his name tag.

“You’re okay, Lenik,” Evan told him, tearing at the Velcro straps, loosing the vest. “Kevlar got you. Just need to catch your breath.”

He tore the vest over Lenik’s head, tossing it aside. He was about to begin chest compressions when the young man’s lungs released with a screech and he took in greedy gasps of air.

“Good, good,” Evan said, already pivoting away. His shirt was before him, puddled on the ground, and he swept it up as he rose. Gibbons had just gotten to all fours. Running past, Evan said, “Sorry,” and kicked out one arm. Behind him, he heard Gibbons’s chest slap the asphalt.

Ramming the shirt into his back pocket, Evan sprinted down the alley to the far side of the block, his view rocking from side to side, a nautical effect.

As he spilled from the alley onto the sidewalk, the vroom of an engine startled him into a leaping turn.

The Suburban.

It accelerated off the curb from its tucked-in hideout between a U-Haul and a gardener’s truck and plowed into him. He almost managed to clear the grille, but the front headlight clipped him and sent him into a helicopter-rotor spin above the street. As the windshield flew crookedly by, Evan caught a glimpse of the driver’s bearded face behind the wheel. Through a haze of motion and pain, he registered the empty passenger seat, the assassin now gone from the Suburban, which meant she was—alarmingly— set up elsewhere.

The landing tore the heels of his hands, his cargo pants at the hip. He tumbled three times across the lanes of the main street, a station wagon stuttering to a stop on antilock brakes, the front bumper giving his cheek a cool metal kiss. The blare of the horn pressurized the inside of his head to the point of bursting.