She jumped out of the ambulance, looking around the field.

Something’s happening, Soldier.

Sir, I am aware of that, sir.

The redhead began shouting orders to other cops. Most of them looked at her, took her news grimly, then looked around. One ran to his car, then a second.

He saw the redhead’s pretty face and her wormy eyes scanning the airport grounds. He rested the reticles on her perfect chin. What had she found? What was she looking for?

She paused and he saw her talking to herself.

No, not herself. She was talking into a headset. The way she’d listen, then nod, it seemed that she was taking orders from someone.

Who? he wondered.

Someone who’d figured out that I’m here, Stephen thought.

Someone looking for me.

Someone who can watch me through windows and disappear instantly. Who can move through walls and holes and tiny cracks to sneak up and find me.

A chill down his back – he actually shivered – and for a moment the reticles of the telescope danced away from the redheaded cop and he lost acquisition of a target completely.

What the fuck was that, Soldier?

Sir, I don’t know, sir.

When he reacquired the redhead he saw how bad things were. She was pointing right at the painting contractor’s van he’d just stolen. It was parked about two hundred feet from him, in a small parking lot reserved for construction trucks.

Whoever the redhead was talking to had found the painter’s body and discovered how he’d gotten onto the airport grounds.

The worm moved closer. He felt its shadow, its cold slime.

The cringey feeling. Worms crawling up his legs… worms crawling down his neck…

What should I do? he wondered.

One chance… one shot…

They’re so close, the Wife and the Friend. He could finish everything right now. Five seconds was all it would take. Maybe those were their outlines he could see in the window. That shadowy form. Or that one… But Stephen knew that if he fired through the glass, everyone would drop to the floor. If he didn’t kill the Wife with the first shot, he’d ruin the chance.

I need her outside. I need to draw them out of cover into the kill zone. I can’t miss there.

He had no time. No time! Think!

If you want a doe, endanger the fawn.

Stephen began breathing slowly. In, out, in, out. He drew his target. Began applying pressure, imperceptible, to the trigger. The Model 40 fired.

The ka-boom rolled over the field and all the cops hit the ground, drawing their weapons.

Another shot, and a second puff of smoke flew from the tail-mounted engine of the silver jet in the hangar.

The redheaded cop, her own gun in hand, was crouching, scanning for location. She glanced at the two smoking holes in the skin of the plane, then looked out over the field once more, pointing a stubby Glock out in front of her.

Take her out?

Yes? No?

Negative, Soldier. Stay fixed on your target.

He fired again. The puff of explosion tore another tiny chunk out of the side of the airplane.

Calm. Another shot. The kick in the shoulder, the sweet smell of the burnt powder. A windshield in the cockpit exploded.

This was the shot that did it.

Suddenly there she was – the Wife – forcing her way through the office door, grappling with the young blond cop who tried to hold her back.

No target yet. Keep her coming.

Squeeze. Another bullet tore through the engine.

The Wife, her face horrified, broke free and ran down the stairs toward the hangar to close the doors, to protect her child.

Reload.

He laid the reticles on her chest as she stepped to the ground and started to run.

Full target lead of four inches, Stephen calculated automatically. He moved the gun ahead of her and squeezed the trigger. It fired just as the blond cop tackled her and they went down below a slight dip in the earth. A miss. And they had just enough cover to keep him from skimming slugs into their backs.

They’re moving in, Soldier. They’re flanking you.

Yessir, understood.

Stephen glanced over the runways. Other police had appeared. They were crawling toward their cars. One car was speeding directly toward him, only fifty yards away. Stephen used one shot to take out the engine block. Steam spraying from the front end, the car eased to a stop.

Stay calm, he told himself.

We’re prepared to evacuate. We just need one clear shot.

He heard several fast pistol shots. He looked back at the redhead. She was in a competition combat stance, pointing the stubby pistol in his direction, looking for his muzzle flash. The sound of the shot wouldn’t do her any good, of course; it was why he never bothered with silencers. Loud noises are as hard to pinpoint as soft ones.

The redheaded cop was standing tall, squinting as she gazed.

Stephen closed the bolt of the Model 40.

Amelia Sachs saw a faint glimmer and she knew where the Coffin Dancer was.

In a small grove of trees about three hundred yards away. His telescopic sight caught the reflected glint of the pale clouds overhead.

“Over there,” she cried, pointing, to two county cops huddling in their cruiser.

The troopers rolled into their car and took off, skidding behind a nearby hangar to flank him.

“Sachs,” Rhyme called through her headset. “What’s -”

“Jesus, Rhyme, he’s on the field, shooting at the plane.”

“What?”

“Percey’s trying to get to the hangar. He’s shooting explosive slugs. He’s shooting to draw her out.”

“You stay down, Sachs. If Percey’s going to kill herself, let her. But you stay down!”

She was sweating furiously, hands shaking, heart pounding. She felt the quiver of panic run down her back.

“Percey!” Sachs cried.

The woman had broken free from Jerry Banks and rolled to her feet. She was speeding toward the hangar door.

“No!”

Oh, hell.

Sachs’s eyes were on the spot where she’d seen the flare of the Dancer’s ’scope.

Too far, it’s too far, she thought. I can’t hit anything at that distance.

If you stay calm, you can. You’ve got eleven rounds left. There’s no wind. Trajectory’s the only problem. Aim high and work down.

She saw several leaves fly outward as the Dancer fired again.

An instant later a bullet passed within inches of her face. She felt the shock wave and heard the snap as the slug, traveling twice the speed of sound, burned the air around her.

She uttered a faint whimper and dropped to her stomach, cowering.

No! You had a chance to shoot. Before he rechambered. But it’s too late now. He’s locked and loaded again.

She looked up fast, lifted her gun, then lost her nerve. Head down, the Glock pointed generally in the direction of the trees, she fired five fast shots.

But she might as well have been shooting blanks.

Come on, girl. Get up. Aim and shoot. You got six left and two clips on your belt.

But the thought of the near miss kept her pinned to the ground.

Do it! she raged at herself.

But she couldn’t.

All Sachs had the courage for was to raise her head a few inches – just far enough to see Percey Clay, sprinting, race to the hangar door just as Jerry Banks caught up with her. The young detective shoved her down to the ground behind a generator cart. Almost simultaneously with the rolling boom of the Coffin Dancer’s rifle there came the sickening crack of the bullet striking Banks, who spun about like a drunk as blood puffed into a cloud around him.

And on his face, first a look of surprise, then of bewilderment, then of nothing whatsoever as he spiraled down to the damp concrete.