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“Everyone get down!” Payne shouted, pulling the valet prone behind the nose of the Porsche and using his body to shield her.
He reached inside his jacket and tugged the .45 from the shoulder holster.
At that exact moment there came the Boom! of a shotgun blast. Payne heard the distinctive sounds of the piercing of metal and the shattering of glass.
There were screams as people ran for cover, many fleeing into the park.
Payne looked over the Porsche’s hood when he heard the Escalade’s engine roar. He saw the SUV surging toward the van.
There then came another shotgun blast right before the SUV rammed the van.
The Escalade bounced off it, careened to the right, and accelerated down the street.
The van, tires squealing, raced after the Escalade.
Payne scanned the area as he got to his feet. With his free left hand, he helped Melody stand up.
He walked her quickly over to the kiosk, behind which the others were crouching.
“You okay?” he said, releasing her arm.
“Yeah. Think so,” she said, her voice shaking. “Thanks.”
Payne, running back around the Porsche, scanned the area. He did not see anyone injured. But he clearly saw that the passenger door windows of the Bentley were shattered and there was a defined bullet hole in its crazed windshield.
That’s not from birdshot, Payne thought. That’s buckshot.
He then heard behind him a woman yelling: “What’s happening? Was that Johnny?”
Payne turned and looked.
Jesus. Is she fucking nuts?
It was the tall blonde he more or less recalled walking away from the Escalade when he had pulled up. He had not paid her any particular attention; Center City crawled with really good-looking women and he had been distracted by his phone conversation. But now he saw that she was extremely attractive and elegantly dressed. Her sweeping dress and long hair flowed behind her as she rushed out from the high-rise and past the kiosk.
“Police!” Payne shouted at her from beside the door of the Porsche, which was still open. He held the .45 in his right hand, muzzle up and trigger finger along its slide, and pointed with his left toward the building entrance. “Stay back!”
As the woman passed Melody, the valet intercepted her and tried persuading her to return to the building.
Payne squeezed in behind the wheel, wincing again at the sharp pain. After putting his phone and pistol on the passenger seat, he threw the stick shift into first gear, hitting the gas pedal while dumping the clutch.
The 911 leapt into motion and went screaming around the top of the drive. He caught a glimpse of the attractive blonde forcing her way past the valet and heading toward the street.
Payne shook his head.
She must be crazy . . . or have a death wish.
He laid steadily on the horn as he approached the brick drive’s exit and then turned onto the street.
Ahead, the battered van now was racing almost side by side with the SUV. The two vehicles were quickly nearing the T intersection that was at the southwest corner of Rittenhouse Square. A line of nineteenth-century buildings loomed directly ahead. Around the corner was the brownstone with bronzed signage reading DELAWARE VALLEY CANCER SOCIETY.
There’s no room for both to make that turn, Payne thought.
Damn—they could hit my place.
Payne then saw the black tube again slide out of the chromed door on the right side of the van. He waited for another shotgun blast—but then the Escalade swerved hard into the van.
The impact caused the van to go up on the sidewalk and almost into the park. The Escalade then sharply veered right. The driver overcorrected—and the SUV slid sideways, its right tires clipping the opposite curb, causing the SUV to tip and then roll onto its roof.
