This rebuke was another reminder that he had abandoned her and left her all alone in Copland. So, if she had to bend the law a bit, well, that was clearly his fault. Her logic was flawed but consistent; she always came out blameless. And he had to smile because this policy of hers had not changed since she was ten years old. Here was his old Kathy.

"It's your turn," she said. "Wait for Zachary, then follow him. I'll catch up with you at the bar on Green Street."

Riker raised one hand to point the way Zachary's limousine had gone. His extended arm hung in the air for one foolish moment before dropping to his side. "He wasn't in that limo."

"Right," said Mallory. "He uses a double every night. You see? It's all coming back to you. Once a cop, always a cop."

She walked down the dark street, traveling almost the length of the block before he fully grasped what had just happened. She had sicced the feds on Ian Zachary, then duped them by letting them chase a doppelganger. Before he could ask why, Mallory turned a corner and disappeared. A truck with the logo of a janitorial service pulled up to the radio station. Five men in orange coveralls piled out and unloaded mops, machines and cleaning supplies. Riker backed into the dark of a doorway and waited the length of one cigarette. A man emerged from the building across the street and moved down the sidewalk at the pace of an elderly arthritic. He wore orange coveralls like the janitors, but none of those men had been stooped with age, nor had any of them worn the slouch hat that hid this man's face in shadow.

Following at a distance, Riker saw his target stand erect before descending a concrete slope to the lower level of a parking garage. Slowing his steps to give the man some lead time, Riker strolled down a ramp marked for one-way traffic. He was heading toward the lighted window of an empty ticket booth. At the bottom of the ramp, in place of a human being, an automated ticket machine extended its mechanical arm across the ramp to halt incoming vehicles with a bar of wood. Riker moved out of the way to allow a blue sedan to crawl past him. At the bottom of the ramp, the driver reached out the window and pulled a ticket from the mouth of the machine. The mechanical arm raised to let the car pass. Beyond that wooden barrier, all Riker could see were patches of light and empty parking spaces.

A gunshot exploded in the cavern below, quickly followed by the screech of the blue sedan's brakes and echoes of the bang.

Riker rocked on one foot, caught midstride and off balance. His body stiffened, his chest seized up, and he was dropping like a manikin. In an act of pure reflex, his hands shot out in front of him to soften his fall and save him from a broken nose, but now his arms had turned useless. He could not move them, nor could he breathe. This time, he thought his lungs would burst. The panic was ratcheting higher and higher, heart racing.

The gunshot had also panicked the driver of the blue sedan. The car was backing up, hitting the guardrail in haste to get out. Riker heard the crack of the wooden barrier, then footsteps and a tapping sound. His face pressed to concrete, all he could see was a dark coat and the white tip of a blind man's cane. No help was coming from that quarter.

Another gunshot sounded – and another.

The blue sedan moved forward, and Riker knew what would happen next. The frightened driver wanted distance before he reversed his gears and crashed backward into the wooden barrier that trapped him. The driver would not be checking for bodies in his rearview mirror.

Riker knew he was a dead man, out of breath and flat out of time. He heard the grinding of the gears reversing, the car engine revving, backing up, crashing through the rail, coming to smash his head like a melon. A warm body covered his own and rolled with him back to the wall and safety as the blue sedan sped past him in reverse. Riker's eyes were closing as his deliverer eased her body off of him to kneel at his side, but he was aware of Jo's hands on his chest, his face, and then her mouth was pressed to his as she breathed for him, filling his lungs with air. Panic and fear yielded to a lightness of the head, a floating sensation.

"Listen," she said. "It's like the day you almost wrecked the van. You won't die. If you lose consciousness, all the muscles will relax." And then she whispered, "Don't be afraid."

And he was not.

The paralysis had passed off, and what had begun as the kiss of life became a kiss for its own sake. Drunk on the euphoria of oxygen deprivation, that part of his brain where the thinking was done excused itself and stepped off a cliff. His hands were on the back of her neck, pressing her closer, his fingers tangling in her hair. Jo was life and breath and more.

She pulled back.

He tried to rise, and she put one hand flat on his chest to restrain him. "Stay here," she said. "I'll get help."

He had his breath back – and his mind had also come back to him. "Get out of here, Jo." He pushed her hand aside. "Go now! I need backup. Get to a phone." He was on his feet again and running down the ramp toward the thing that scared him more than anything else on earth. And he could not have done otherwise. This was a cop's job, running toward the sound of guns. Past the splintered guardrail and running on level ground, he rounded a thick pillar and came upon two men in a pool of overhead light.

Ian Zachary had lost the slouch hat of his janitor disguise. Unarmed, he squared off against the man who held the gun, taunting him. "What's wrong with you, MacPherson? A thirteen-year-old girl could've made that shot."

The other man, small and rail thin, raised his revolver and fired three shots at Zachary's chest.

Riker remained standing this time, fighting down the panic as bone locked with bone and every muscle constricted. He would not suffocate and die. This would pass; he knew it would because he believed in Jo. He was hyperaware of every detail to this scene: his banging heart, the sweat on his upper lip. And he could see that the gunshots had no effect on Zachary. The shooter could not have missed, but there were no holes in the target's orange coveralls and no ricochets off concrete walls. Blanks?

Agape, Zachary stared at Riker, no doubt wondering why the frozen man simply stood there rooted to the cement. The paralysis passed off faster this time, and Riker relaxed into a casual stance, feigning mild interest in the stranger with the gun. When he felt steady and able again, he strode toward the shooter, rolling his body with all the old authority of the badge. He took the weapon from the man's trembling hand, saying so casually, "So you're MacPherson." He opened the revolver's cylinder and checked the chambers. "You're out of bullets. Tough break, pal."

Riker glanced at Ian Zachary and the bulk beneath the orange coveralls. Was the man wearing a bulletproof vest? Of course he was. All that bravado had come from a civilian's lame idea that the vest would take the bullet with no harm done. But getting shot in the chest was worth a ride to the hospital, vest or no vest.

"I have a carry permit." MacPherson's voice was shaky, and his eyes had the vacant look of a trauma victim. He was assuming that Riker was police, for now he unfolded a paper and handed it over, as if this might excuse him for this ambush of an unarmed man.

Riker held the document at arm's length to read the small print. Yes, this was MacPherson, one of the last three living jurors and duly authorized to carry a pistol for the purpose of self-defense. He handed the permit back, saying, "Okay, I guess you're licensed to shoot him."

Not seeing any humor in this situation, MacPherson actually seemed relieved that he was not in any serious trouble. Riker pulled back the man's coat to expose a metal cylinder hanging from his belt. He unhooked the speedloader and emptied its store of ammo into his hand. The cartridges were capped with wax to hold the charge of gunpowder, but no bullets.