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He’s still on his phone.
Who is he talking to?
That doesn’t matter.
You don’t know what’s going on or why Myron is hiding behind the tree. You debate your next move. Should you wait for him to start walking this way again?
No.
You can’t risk that. You must act and act now. Suppose Myron is being followed. Or suppose he doubles back in the opposite direction, back toward Emily’s apartment. You’ll be out of position. You may lose him entirely. Your plan will be jeopardized.
Go! you tell yourself.
So you do.
You abandon the safety of the tunnel entrance and hurry toward him. His back is still turned. He keeps glancing in the direction of the Imagine mosaic while talking on the phone. That’s good. He’s distracted. He isn’t looking toward you.
You’re only a few yards away when Myron suddenly takes the phone away from his ear.
He looks at something on the phone’s screen.
A lot of things happen at once now.
You raise the gun to shoot him in the head.
You also see what he’s looking at on his phone. When you do, you freeze.
It’s you.
How the…?
You stay frozen. But not for long. Barely a second. You push away the panic and snap out of it. You put the muzzle of the gun up to the back of his skull.
You start to pull the trigger—and as you do, Myron spins around and knocks your arm.
But it’s too late for him. The bullet fires.
And his blood splashes on your face.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Myron dropped to his knees first. Then he fell forward onto his hands.
Blood poured off him. Myron stared down and watched it pool on the pavement below him. There were screams and shouts and everything seemed to be in motion.
Myron blinked and felt the cold.
He realized that he had been hit—that he was heading into a state of shock.
Move, he told himself. Move or die.
There was no plan, no conscious contemplation beyond the simple idea of not staying still. He knew that he’d been hit and hit badly. The pain came at him in a roar and spread. It felt as though a giant animal had taken a huge bite out of his neck. From his hands and knees, he tried to get up. No go. He pushed instead off one leg, a wounded sprinter in the blocks.
“We aren’t bulletproof…”
Hadn’t Win said that just the other day?
Apropos.
