There was not and he did.

He turned left-the only entrance/exit was where he came in, and he would have to drive to the end of the line, and then out that way-and flicked the headlights onto high.

"What the fuck is that?" he asked aloud, and then he accelerated rapidly and braked as quickly.

"Oh, my God!" Terry said. She had seen what he had.

There was a man propped up against the rear of one of the parked cars, his legs sprawled in front of him. A woman was kneeling beside him, wiping at his face. He was bleeding from the mouth.

Matt jumped out of the car.

"What happened?"

"What does it look like?" the woman snapped. "We were mugged."

"I gave him my wallet, why did they have to do this?" the man asked, and spit. What looked like part of a tooth came out of his mouth.

"Have you got a cell phone?" the woman demanded. "We need an ambulance."

Matt reached for his cell phone.

"My God, they're coming back!" the man said.

Matt saw where he was looking.

At the extreme end of the parking lot, there were two young men in dark clothes.

"You're sure that's them?" Matt asked.

"That's them, that's them, that's them," the woman said.

"Stop right there," Matt called, loudly. "I'm a police officer."

The two started running.

One of them had what could be a sawed-off shotgun, or a softball bat.

"Where the hell were you when we needed you?" the woman asked.

Matt ran back to the Porsche and got in. He tossed his cellular into Terry's lap.

"What the hell are you doing?" Terry asked.

He had the car moving before the door had closed.

He wound it up in first, and touched the brake only as he reached the end of the lane of cars. As he turned left, the windshield of the Porsche suddenly reflected light all over.

There was a boom.

"You cocksucker!" Matt said, slamming on the brakes.

The object in the man's hand obviously was not a softball bat.

There was another boom. Part of the windshield fell out.

Matt dove out of the car, and half rolled, half crawled, between two parked cars.

He pulled his Colt Officer's Model.45 from the small of his back and worked the action. A cartridge flew out. He'd had one in the chamber.

That leaves five.

He ran between the cars, dropped to his knees, and peered very carefully around the bumper of one.

The two were climbing the chain-link fence at the end of the parking lot.

Matt stood up, held the pistol in both hands, and called out, "That's it. Just drop to the ground."

One of them dropped to the ground and one didn't.

For a moment, Matt didn't know what to do.

Then the second one dropped to the ground, reached into his jacket, and came out with a semiautomatic pistol and started firing it wildly.

And then there was another boom, immediately followed by the sound of heavy lead shot striking metal and glass near him.

Matt fired four times, taking out the shotgunner first, and then the man with the pistol. The shotgunner went down and stayed there. The man with the pistol didn't. He began to scream in agony.

Matt took the spare clip to the.45 from where he had concealed it-behind the white handkerchief in the breast pocket of the dinner jacket- ejected the empty clip from the pistol, and slipped in the spare.

Then, holding the weapon in both hands, he carefully walked up to the two men on the ground. The one with the shotgun was on his back, his head in a pool of blood. One of Matt's shots had struck him, straight on, in the right cheek.

The other one was screaming.

Matt saw the pistol-at first glance in the dark, it looked like a Browning.380-and keeping his eye on the man, bent over, carefully picked it up with two fingers on the grips, and then put it in his hip pocket.

"You got anything else?" he asked, and patted the writhing man down to make sure he didn't.

Then he went back and picked up the shotgun on the ground near the body, and turned and walked quickly toward the Porsche and the victims.

The first thing he saw was that only one headlight was working. And then he saw the pellet holes in the hood and door and windshield frame, and what was left of the windshield. Then he first smelled and then saw gasoline running from under the Porsche.

"Jesus," he said. He laid the shotgun on the roof and jerked Terry's door open.

She looked at him without comprehension.

And then he saw that her face was bleeding.

"Are you all right?"

"All right?" she parroted.

He unfastened her seat belt, reached into her lap, reclaimed his cellular, and then pulled her out of the car.

There was blood on her dress, but when he put his hand to it, she pushed him away, as if he was taking liberties with her person. He led her around the corner and sort of leaned her against a Ford van.

Then he went to the victims.

"It's over," he said. "Everything's going to be all right."

"All right? All right?" the woman snapped at him. "What the hell is the matter with you? Are you drunk, or what? Can't you hear that screaming?"

"I'm calling for assistance," Matt said. "Help will be here soon."

He punched in 911 on his cellular as he walked back to Terry.

"Police Radio." Mrs. Angelina Carracelli, who had been on the job for twenty-two years, answered his call on the second ring.

"This is Sergeant Payne, 471. Shots fired. Officer needs assistance."

Mrs. Carracelli waited for the sergeant to provide greater details. When none were forthcoming, she said, "Sergeant?"

"Radio," Sergeant Payne said, a little distantly. "That's not exactly accurate. I'm doing fine. I don't need assistance. But there are people here who do."

"You said 'shots fired,' Sergeant?"

"Oh, yes. Lots of shots fired."

"What is your location, Sergeant?"

"I'm going to need two ambulances-no, three. And the fire department. There's spilled gas."

"What is your location, Sergeant?"

"I'm in the parking lot next to La Famiglia Restaurant on South Front Street."

"Are you injured?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you in uniform, Sergeant?"

"Oh, no, I'm not in uniform," Matt chuckled.

Mrs. Carracelli made several quick decisions. First, that the call was legitimate, not someone's idea of a joke. That there was something wrong with the sergeant. His voice was strange, and he sounded a little disoriented. He might be injured, or even wounded.

She muted the telephone line and pushed the appropriate switches.

Every police radio in Philadelphia heard three shrill beeps, and then the call:

"Assist the Officer, South Front Street, parking lot by La Famiglia Restaurant unit block South Front Street. Shots fired. Assist the Officer, parking lot by La Famiglia Restaurant unit block South Front Street. Shots fired. All officers use caution, plainclothes police on the scene."

The three shrill beeps and the call were also heard in the Buick Rendezvous, which was carrying Mr. and Mrs. Casimir Bolinski up Market Street toward the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.

"Shit," Mr. Michael J. O'Hara said, as he put the Rendezvous into a screeching U-turn. "That's where Matty is!" As they followed the black Suburban up Market Street in their unmarked Crown Victoria, Lieutenant Gerry McGuire and Sergeant Al Nevins heard the same call.

McGuire found the microphone.

"Dan Seven-four and Dan Seven-five, stay with the assignment," he said into it, and then he tossed the microphone to Nevins as he desperately looked for a hole in the oncoming traffic on Market Street in which he could make a U-turn.

"Radio," Sergeant Nevins said to the microphone, "Dan Seven-one in on the Assist Officer on Front Street. Be advised there is probably an officer in plainclothes on the scene."

Mrs. Carracelli opened the telephone line.