She pushed Cheryl toward the bed behind them.

Franklin said, ''You get them?''

''They made it out, but we got guys coming in all over the place.''

''Shit.''

''I hit one of them and you guys hit one. We've got one blood trail going in and out of the elevator, and another one starting in the lobby.'' Lucas started to tremble with the adrenaline.

''Good,'' Franklin said, and he began to shake as well. He looked down at the wreckage of the hallway, and said to Lucas, ''You know what it was like in here?''

''What?''

''It was like one of those scenes in Star Wars where the Storm Troopers are shooting about a million shots at the goodguys and never hit anything. I mean, more shit went up and down the hall…''

Lucas looked at him, covered with plaster dust, and said, ''You know, you might want to sit down.''

Franklin rubbed his chest, looked at Cheryl, now flat on her back and deathly pale, and said, ''Yeah, I might.''

MARTIN WAS RUNNING, STAGGERING, TURNING THE corner into the hall that would take him out past the emergency room, past the body on the floor, LaChaise a step behind, when the world blew up again, and a hail of glass and lead blew past them.

LaChaise screamed, but Martin could sense him still moving, then another shot pounded past them and LaChaise turned and opened up with the machine gun and

Martin went through the door out onto the sidewalk, half expecting to die there.

But the car was waiting, idling peacefully. A woman was a half-block away, walking toward them carrying a bag. She stopped, suddenly, when she saw them, but Martin was already around the car; he threw the gun in the backseat and climbed inside. LaChaise piled in the passenger side and they rolled out of the lot, the passenger side door flopping open, then slamming as they slewed in a circle and headed south.

''Hurt bad…'' LaChaise moaned. ''My fuckin' legs…''

''Fire alarm,'' Martin said. He had one hand clamped overthe wound in his leg, and he could feel the blood seeping between his fingers. ''Sonsofbitches set off the fire alarm.''

''How bad are you hit?'' LaChaise asked, then moaned again as they bounced over a curb and around a corner. The streets were empty.

''I'm bleeding heavy,'' Martin said. ''Christ… Hang on.''

Martin was trying to turn into the side street that led to the garage. But he was moving too fast, and driving with one hand, and they hit a curb again, ran through a small bare tree, bounced off the parking strip and back into the street. La-Chaise, groaning, reached over Martin's head to the sun flap and pushed the button on the garage-door opener. Across the street, the door started up, and Martin horsed the car inside.

Sandy Darling was there with the chain, her eyes wide as she moved behind the steel post, and Martin reached up and jabbed the garage-door opener again and the door started down.

They had not been gone more than ten minutes, and were now no more than a minute and a half out of the hospital. Martin pushed his door open and climbed out, leaving the rifle behind, clutching his thigh, trying to stop the flow of blood.

LaChaise was out, got the padlock keys. ''Hurt,'' he said. ''Get your first-aid shit… we're hurt.''

''What happened?'' Sandy asked, as LaChaise popped open the padlock at her waist.

''Fucked up,'' LaChaise said. ''They were waiting.''

''Are they coming?''

''Don't know,'' LaChaise said. ''Let's get upstairs…''

THE TWO MEN PULLED OFF THEIR OUTER CLOTHES IN the living room. Martin's leg looked like somebody had carved out a golf ball-sized chunk of meat with a dull hunting knife: the wound was circular, ragged, choked with blood andchopped flesh, with pieces of thread from his pants mixed in the gore. Sandy handed him a heavy gauze wound pad and said, ''Clamp that over the hole… let me look at Dick.''

All of LaChaise's wounds were in the back of his legs, the back of his arms and the back of his head, and most were superficial cuts from glass. When he first took off his pants and shirt, he appeared to be shredded. But blood was actively flowing from only one wound, and when Sandy dabbed at the rest of him, she said,

''I don't think you're too bad. Get to a hospital, and you won't die.''

''Kiss my ass,'' LaChaise groaned. ''Wipe it up or something.''

''On the other hand,'' she said, looking at the one wound that was bleeding,

''you've got a bullet hole in the back of your arm.'' She rolled his arm, and found a lump under the skin near the front. ''And that's the bullet, I think.''

''Cut it out,'' LaChaise said.

''It's pretty deep.''

''I don't give a fuck, cut it out.''

''Dick, I'd just hurt you worse.''

''All right, all right…''

Martin stretched out on the floor and lay silent and motionless as she poured a glass of water over the wound, probed at it, shook her head and said, ''All I can do is put some more pads over it and bind it up. You need a doctor. You're going to get infected.''

Martin's stomach heaved and she realized he was laughing: hysterical, she thought. Then again, maybe he thought it was funny. ''Infection'll take a couple days. We ain't got a couple days.'' He looked at LaChaise. ''We gotta keep moving, boy.''

''I'm really fuckin' hurtin', man.''

''They'll wonder where we went, and sooner or later, they'll kick their way in here. If we're gonna do any moredamage, we gotta move.'' He looked at the windows. ''Before light.''

LaChaise groaned, but got to his hands and knees, looked sideways at Sandy and said, ''Tape me up where you can.''

''I don't have that much tape.''

''Well, get the worst ones,'' he said. To Martin: ''That fuckin' shotgun.

Somebody had a fuckin' shotgun and he had me dead, but that first shot missed.

That fuckin' glass was like a hurricane… Second shot hit me in the vest.''

Sandy said, ''I'll get a towel.''

As she ran back to the bathroom LaChaise crawled across the floor to the bulletproof vest he'd taken off. A ragged pattern of pellet holes punctured the nylon back panel. ''

Probably shooting triple-ought,'' he said. ''Christ, if he'd been a little worse shot and a little high, I wouldn't have a head.''

Martin was on the phone, dialing.

''Surgery, please… Thanks.'' Then, after a moment, ''This is Chief

Davenport, is my wife Weather there?'' He listened as LaChaise watched, then said, ''No, that's okay. Tell her to call when she gets done, okay?''

''She's not his fuckin' wife,'' LaChaise said, when Martin hung up. ''Was she there?''

''She's scrubbing for surgery.''

''That's where we're going, then,'' LaChaise said. ''That motherfucker Davenport set the whole thing up. I wouldn't be surprised if that was him up in the hallway. Jesus, that was something…''

SANDY CAME BACK FROM THE BATHROOM, AND OVERHEARD the last part of the conversation. ''Where're you going?''

''Hospital where Davenport's old lady works,'' LaChaise said.

''You gonna let me go?''

''Something like that,'' LaChaise said, and he grinned at her. Her heart lurched: they were going to kill her.

''Turn over,'' she said. She dabbed his back with the wet towel, cleaning him up as best she could, isolating the biggest cuts, pulling a few pieces of glass out of his back and legs. ''I can't patch the ones under your hair,'' she said.

''Just get the rest.''

Martin had slid over to his travel bag, got a pair of camo jeans out, and pulled them on as he sat on the floor. ''We wait an hour, and then we head out: if we go right straight across to Washington Avenue…''

''Around that curve and down that ramp and across the bridge and the hospital's right there,'' LaChaise finished, remembering the recon.