ordinary way. The features had been more clearly defined. She was not a girl any longer. She had come into her own.
Then he was passing the newspaper stand. The man behind the counter was staring at him balefully. In the next moment, he was raising a hand, giving a signal to the one in the doorway.
Hobbs moved faster.
After another ten paces, he had reached the far corner of the block. Before turning, he glanced back over his shoulder. The man in the newspaper stand was pointing at him. The other was hurrying forward, hands in pockets. Eva was still moving away, continuing her walk as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
He stepped around the corner and then broke into a run.
A voice rang out, âStehenbleiben!â Stop or Iâll shoot.
He kept running, throwing the cane aside.
Halfway down the block, he stepped into a recessed doorway. He bent down and pulled the Beretta from its holster, his heart thudding. He counted to three and then stepped out from the doorway.
The watcher was thereâmoving cautiously forward, one hand still in his pocket, the other holding a gun. When Hobbs stepped out, he looked almost comically surprised.
Hobbs raised the Beretta and fired three shots into the manâs chest: Fpp fpp fpp.
Then ran back in the direction from which heâd come. They had seen him passing the letter. The other man, therefore, had to be silenced as well.
The man in the book stand was fishing around beneath a stack of newspapers. Hobbs charged toward him, aiming the gun, straight-armed. He fired once; missed. A magazine hanging from a rack flapped as if taken by a sudden breeze. Then the man had his own gun in his hands. There was a sudden, flat crack. A bullet hissed through the air an inch from Hobbsâ ear.
He fired again, still moving forward, and again he missed.
The man returned fire. Hobbs felt a strong hand take his leg and push it out from under him. As he fell, he squeezed the trigger twice more. Fpp fpp.
When he looked up, the man was nowhere to be seen. But a stain of blood was on the flapping magazine, peppered with off-white shards of bone.
He gained his feet. One hand moved to his leg, searching for the wound. The bullet had entered just above his knee. When he put weight on the leg, it sent a rill of pain straight into his central nervous system, making his teeth clench.
If he could make the car, he still had a chance.
He began to move, dragging the leg. It was the right leg, the one that had given him trouble ever since the rugby injury years before. Ruined, now, beyond any doubt. Well, his rugby days had been finished anyway. He almost laughed at the thought.
For a moment, the pain welled, threatening to take him away. The edges of his field of vision blurred. Then the darkness receded, leaving him on his feet.
A whistle was blowing somewhere. Someone was calling after him. He ignored it.
He reached the corner. Eva was gone. Just as well. She had a better chance without him, now.
Halfway down the next block he became aware of feet pounding behind him. The whistle continued to blow, shrilly. He turned his head and saw two Gestapo agents in pursuit. He raised the Beretta and fired in their general direction, hoping to make them duck for cover. But the hammer clicked impotently on an empty chamber. Of course; the gun used a seven-shot magazine.
One of the Gestapo kept blowing his whistle. The other drew a pistol of his own and took long, careful aim. Hobbs turned again, dropped the empty Beretta, and hurried off.
A bullet hammered into the sidewalk two feet away, sending up a chip of concrete. He ducked. Then he could see the Talta, fifty feet away, impossibly distant.
His vision clouded again. When it cleared he was behind the wheel, somehow. The keys were in his hand, but his hand was slicked with blood. He promptly dropped the keys. When he bent down to retrieve them, the rear windshield blew out. If he hadnât ducked â¦
His fingers skittered
Then he was passing the newspaper stand. The man behind the counter was staring at him balefully. In the next moment, he was raising a hand, giving a signal to the one in the doorway.
Hobbs moved faster.
After another ten paces, he had reached the far corner of the block. Before turning, he glanced back over his shoulder. The man in the newspaper stand was pointing at him. The other was hurrying forward, hands in pockets. Eva was still moving away, continuing her walk as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
He stepped around the corner and then broke into a run.
A voice rang out, âStehenbleiben!â Stop or Iâll shoot.
He kept running, throwing the cane aside.
Halfway down the block, he stepped into a recessed doorway. He bent down and pulled the Beretta from its holster, his heart thudding. He counted to three and then stepped out from the doorway.
The watcher was thereâmoving cautiously forward, one hand still in his pocket, the other holding a gun. When Hobbs stepped out, he looked almost comically surprised.
Hobbs raised the Beretta and fired three shots into the manâs chest: Fpp fpp fpp.
Then ran back in the direction from which heâd come. They had seen him passing the letter. The other man, therefore, had to be silenced as well.
The man in the book stand was fishing around beneath a stack of newspapers. Hobbs charged toward him, aiming the gun, straight-armed. He fired once; missed. A magazine hanging from a rack flapped as if taken by a sudden breeze. Then the man had his own gun in his hands. There was a sudden, flat crack. A bullet hissed through the air an inch from Hobbsâ ear.
He fired again, still moving forward, and again he missed.
The man returned fire. Hobbs felt a strong hand take his leg and push it out from under him. As he fell, he squeezed the trigger twice more. Fpp fpp.
When he looked up, the man was nowhere to be seen. But a stain of blood was on the flapping magazine, peppered with off-white shards of bone.
He gained his feet. One hand moved to his leg, searching for the wound. The bullet had entered just above his knee. When he put weight on the leg, it sent a rill of pain straight into his central nervous system, making his teeth clench.
If he could make the car, he still had a chance.
He began to move, dragging the leg. It was the right leg, the one that had given him trouble ever since the rugby injury years before. Ruined, now, beyond any doubt. Well, his rugby days had been finished anyway. He almost laughed at the thought.
For a moment, the pain welled, threatening to take him away. The edges of his field of vision blurred. Then the darkness receded, leaving him on his feet.
A whistle was blowing somewhere. Someone was calling after him. He ignored it.
He reached the corner. Eva was gone. Just as well. She had a better chance without him, now.
Halfway down the next block he became aware of feet pounding behind him. The whistle continued to blow, shrilly. He turned his head and saw two Gestapo agents in pursuit. He raised the Beretta and fired in their general direction, hoping to make them duck for cover. But the hammer clicked impotently on an empty chamber. Of course; the gun used a seven-shot magazine.
One of the Gestapo kept blowing his whistle. The other drew a pistol of his own and took long, careful aim. Hobbs turned again, dropped the empty Beretta, and hurried off.
A bullet hammered into the sidewalk two feet away, sending up a chip of concrete. He ducked. Then he could see the Talta, fifty feet away, impossibly distant.
His vision clouded again. When it cleared he was behind the wheel, somehow. The keys were in his hand, but his hand was slicked with blood. He promptly dropped the keys. When he bent down to retrieve them, the rear windshield blew out. If he hadnât ducked â¦
His fingers skittered
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