Mustering all his strength, he threw the briefcase forward, aiming for where he knew the sniper had to be. He heard a grunt, followed by a sudden clatter. A quick check under the cars told him the sniper’s weapon had fallen to the ground.

This was his chance. Ben raced forward, barreling around the cars. He poured on speed, whipped around the line of parked cars…

The sniper was gone. The gun lying on the pavement was the only evidence that he had ever been there.

Ben scoured the parking lot, trying to get a lead on him, but found nothing. He collected the gun and returned to Christina.

“I think we’re clear,” he told her. “Let’s get help.” He ran up the steps and through the front doors of the office building-then froze.

The lobby had been trashed. Shattered glass was everywhere. The information counter had been destroyed, hammered to bits. Phones had been ripped out of the walls. Tiles broken. Lights ruined. Elevator doors destroyed.

But what most commanded Ben’s attention was the display in the center of the room, hovering where the information counter used to be. A tableau dangling from the ceiling, two figures hanged in effigy, obviously constructed from department store mannequins, so crude that they didn’t really resemble anyone. But one was branded with Greek fraternity letters.

And the other had a red-dyed mop on its head for hair.

LIVE BY THE SWORD; DIE BY THE SWORD read the placard dangling from the feet of the figure that was supposed to be Johnny. The one hanging beneath the representation of Christina read: YOU’RE NEXT.

The owner of the mail-order revolver purchased under an assumed name watched Ben Kincaid and his friends scurry about from a safe distance. Everything had gone as planned, except that the lawyer turned out to be considerably braver than word on the street suggested. No matter. The point had been made. They’d be looking over their shoulders constantly now, wondering if this was the magic moment when the sniper would reappear and give them the drilling they had barely escaped.

And with good cause. Because the sniper would return-sooner than they expected.

30

Hurry! Charlie thought as the bus driver dawdled in the turn lane.

Did he not understand that this was a matter of life and death? Of course, he didn’t. You’re not thinking rationally, he told himself. But who would expect him to think rationally at a time like this? His stomach was in knots and his hands were trembling. He’d been a basket case since he saw what he saw-who he saw-when he got on the bus.

Think it through, Charlie. Having seen me get on this bus, it would be no trick to find out where it’s going. Follow it, make sure no one gets off. Or head for downtown. Anyone with a car could move faster than this bus. And therefore…

He gazed out the window, searching in all directions for the face he most dreaded. There were no more stops before the bus arrived at the downtown terminal. He had considered creating a disturbance, forcing the driver to stop the bus so he could get off. But in the long run, what would that get him? Where would he go? What would he do? He’d been found once. He could be found again. He had to get off the city bus and onto one that would take him far, far away.

It was the Chicken’s last stand. All those days of servicing Chicago’s high-society dames were done. They’d have to find someone else to fill the slot in their leather-bound Filofaxes between getting their hair done and making the society tea. His illustrious career was drawing to a close. Maybe he’d even go back home, go back to being just plain old Charlie.

It was hard to imagine, after all this time. Could he possibly return to his former life? Did he want to? Would his parents accept him? It might sound all sweet and bucolic, but he suspected he would soon miss life in the big city. The glamorous world of palatial mansions and Henredon furniture and… and…

And the Tarzan suit. Most of all, he would miss the Tarzan suit.

When they arrived at the terminal, Charlie stepped cautiously off the bus. He scanned the parking lot, the station-everything and everyone. He was so close. If he could just get out of town-surely that would bring this horror story to an end.

He went inside the station and got in line for a ticket. He didn’t have that much money, given the paltry share the escort service let him keep, but he had enough to get somewhere. Anywhere.

After purchasing his ticket, he took a seat in one of the clamshell chairs near the ticket booth. These seats must’ve been designed to discourage loitering, because they were as uncomfortable as anything he’d ever experienced. He had almost half an hour before his bus left. If he spent it here, he might incur permanent spinal injury.

He wandered over to the vending machines, bought himself a Coke and a Snickers bar. Comfort foods for the underprivileged, he told himself. And they tasted good going down, too. Maybe it was just the sugar rush, but his mood was definitely improving.

Any minute now, he’d see his bus roll up outside the front door and hear the caller tell them all to get on board. Best to take a quick bathroom break while he had a chance. He detoured into the men’s room, went to the urinal, took care of business, zipped up, turned around.

Surprise.

“Hello there. Long time no see.”

Charlie was so stunned he couldn’t think straight. He stuttered like an idiot. “W-w-what are you doing in here?”

“Looking for you, Charlie.”

He glanced at the door. A broom had been wedged through the handle. No one else could get in. No one could help him. He tried to edge away, but the obstruction in his path wasn’t budging.

“Look, I’m leaving town. I haven’t spoken to anyone and I don’t plan to. Keep the money. You can trust me.”

“My experience with trusting others has not been very good.”

Charlie could feel himself failing. His knees were wobbling so badly he could barely stand. “Just let me get on the bus. I promise I’ll be out of your life forever.”

“So you say. But what happens when you’ve been drinking too much at the local tavern, desperately trying to elevate the sex drive of some rich bitch in her late seventies? Perhaps you talk too much, say something you shouldn’t. What happens if the rich bitch trade dries up and you find yourself short of cash? Would blackmail occur to you?”

“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t take that risk.”

Backed up against the urinal, porcelain jammed into his back, Charlie had nowhere to go. “If you try anything, I’ll scream!”

A second later, the butt of a gun cracked his jaw with such explosive force that he was stunned. His legs disappeared; he crumpled to the floor and lay there, his shattered jaw pressed against the foul-smelling tile. His head felt as if it were on fire; all he could see was white. He couldn’t move his mouth. Or anything else.

A perfectly aimed kick caved in his abdomen, smashing several ribs. Pain rippled through him like a river. Then he felt hot breath beside his cheek. “Just a tip, Charlie. If you’re going to scream, just do it. Don’t give the killer a warning.”

Somehow, from somewhere, he managed to find words. “Please… please don’t do this.”

“I recall a time when I was asking for your cooperation, Charlie. You were not so forthcoming, then. And now the time for discussion has passed.”

Another unbearable blow to his rib cage, then he felt himself being twisted around, turned onto his back. The pain was excruciating. Nothing could possibly hurt more, or so he thought, until he felt the hand on his face, forcing his shattered jaw open.

“Hungry, Charlie? Here’s a snack.”

Charlie felt cold steel pressed into his mouth, overwhelming his gag reflex. He tried to muster what remaining strength he possessed to do something, anything, cry for help, push the gun away. But he couldn’t. He clenched his eyes shut, bracing himself against the inevitable.