He’d followed her downtown, where she’d had a meeting on Chambers Street, and he’d looked for a chance to shoot. But there had been too many people down there. Always a problem in Manhattan. Now she was back, aggressively parallel parking in an illegal spot near the cul de sac once again.

He looked up and down the shadowy avenue. Deserted at last. Yes, this would be the place and the time. In his latex gloved hand Swann gripped the SIG Sauer, adjusted it to be able to draw quickly.

He wasn’t going to kill her. He’d decided that would create too much of a stir – too many police, too intense a manhunt, too much press. Instead he’d shoot into her back or legs.

Once she stepped out, he’d double park, climb out, shoot her and then drive off, pausing a few blocks away to swap plates again.

Sachs got out of the Torino, looking around carefully again, hand near her hip. This keen gaze kept Swann in the front seat of his Nissan, head down. When she started up the street he opened the door of the car but paused. Sachs didn’t head for the cul de sac leading to Rhyme’s town house or toward Central Park West but rather walked across the street – to a Chinese restaurant.

He saw her step inside, laughing as she spoke with the woman at the register. Sachs examined the menu. She was getting an order to go. A glance up and then she was waving at one of the busboys. He smiled back.

Swann pulled the Nissan forward, noted a space a few car lengths away. He parked and shut the engine off. His hand slipped inside his jacket and made sure once again he knew just where the pistol was. The receiver was more cumbersome than a Glock’s, with safeties and slide catches, but the gun itself was heavy, which guaranteed the subsequent shots after the first would be particularly accurate; light weapons need more recentering on target than heavy ones do.

He studied Sachs through the streaked glass.

Such an attractive woman.

Long, red hair.

Tall.

Slim too. So slim. Did she not like to eat? She didn’t seem the cooking type. This made Swann dislike her. And takeout from a place like this, salt and overused grease? Shame on you, Amelia. You’ll be right at home for the next few months, eating Jell O and pudding while you recuperate.

In ten minutes she was out the door, take out food in one hand, and playing the cooperative target: walking straight into the cul de sac.

She paused at the entrance, looking into the bag, apparently making sure the restaurant had included the extra rice or fortune cookies or chopsticks. Still fiddling with the bag, she continued toward Rhyme’s town house.

Swann eased his car back into the street but had to brake fast, as a bicyclist sped in front of him and stopped, debating for some reason whether to turn around or continue on to Central Park. Swann was angry but didn’t want to draw attention by honking. He waited, face flushed.

The biker headed on – opting for the beautiful green of a spring park – and Swann punched the accelerator to get to the cul de sac fast. But the delay had cost him. Walking quickly, Sachs had reached the end of the L shaped passage and disappeared to the left, toward the back of the town house.

Not a problem. Better actually. He’d park, follow her in and shoot her as she approached the door. The geometry of the cul de sac there would mute the gunshots and send the sounds in a hundred different directions. Whoever heard would have no idea where they came from.

He looked around. No cops. Little traffic. A few oblivious passersby, lost in their own worlds.

Swann pulled the car into the mouth of the cul de sac, put the transmission in park and stepped out. With the gun drawn, but hidden under his windbreaker, he started over the cobblestones.

He recited to himself: two shots, low in her back, one toward the knee. Although he vastly preferred his knife he was a good marksman. He’d have to–

A voice behind him, a woman’s: “Excuse me. Could you help me?” British accent.

It belonged to a slim, attractive jogger in her early thirties. She stood about eight feet away, between him and the open driver’s door of his car.

“I’m from out of town. I’m trying to find the reservoir. There’s a running path…”

And then she saw it.

His windbreaker had eased away from his body. She saw the gun.

“Oh, God. Look, don’t hurt me. I didn’t see anything! I swear.”

She started to turn but Swann moved fast; he was in front of her in an instant. She took a breath to scream but he struck her in the throat, his open handed blow. She dropped hard to the concrete, out of sight of a couple across the street, arguing about something.

Swann glanced back up the dim canyon between the nearby buildings. Would Sachs be inside by now?

Maybe not. He didn’t know how far the L of the cul de sac extended behind Rhyme’s.

But he had only a matter of seconds to decide. He glanced down at the woman, gasping for breath, just the way Annette had in the Bahamas and Lydia Foster had here.

Uhn, uhn, uhn . Hands to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open.

Yes or no? He debated.

Choose now.

He decided: Yes.

Amelia Sachs stood in the cul de sac behind the town house, Glock drawn, aimed toward where the dim canyon made a right turn and eventually joined the crosstown street.

The Chinese takeout she’d ordered was sitting on the cobblestones and she was in a combat shooting stance: feet planted parallel, toes pointed at your enemy, leaning forward slightly with gun hand gripping hard, other hand cradling the trigger guard for stability. Your dominant arm stiff; if the muscles aren’t taut the recoil might not eject the spent shell and chamber another. A jam can mean death. You and your gun have to be partners.

Come on, Sachs thought to her adversary. Come on, present! This was, of course, Unsub 516. She knew it wasn’t Barry Shales, the sniper; he was still under surveillance by Lon Sellitto’s team.

Several times today she’d noticed a light colored sedan – first, near Henry Cross’s office building on Chambers Street. Then on the drive here and again fifteen minutes ago. She hadn’t seen the car clearly but it was likely the same one that had been following her from Tash Farada’s house in Queens.

Noting the car pull into a space at the end of the block, she’d debated how to handle it. To call Central Dispatch or to approach him by herself on the street might have precipitated a firefight, a bad idea in this densely populated area.

So she’d decided to take him in the cul de sac. She’d bought the Chinese takeout to give him a chance to spot her. Before leaving, she’d slipped her weapon into the bag. Then she’d started across the street, careful not to present a target, and into the cul de sac, apparently focusing on her order but actually sensing from her periphery when the man would make his move.

She’d hurried to the bend in the cul de sac, aware that the car was approaching then stopping. At that point she’d turned, dropped the food and gripped her weapon.

Now she was waiting for the target to present.

Would he drive farther in? Probably not. Too easy to get blocked in, if a delivery or moving truck showed up.

Was he out of the car and moving fast toward her?

Palms dry, both eyes open – you never squint when you shoot. And you focus on two things only: your target and the front sight of your weapon. Forget the blade sight at the back of the receiver. You can’t bring everything into definition.

Come on!

Breathing steadily.

Where was he? Prowling forward, about to leap around the corner and drop into his own shooting stance?

Or what if he’d anticipated she was on to him? He might have grabbed a passerby to shove into the cul de sac as a distraction. Or use him or her as a shield, hoping that Sachs would react and shoot the innocent.