The Shadow Hunter

fire.
    A few yards from the smoking wreckage the squad cars rolled to a stop. Two deputies, each riding solo, got out with guns drawn and eyes wary. Travis met the men and summarized the situation. “RA coming?” he asked. Rescue ambulance.
    “En route,” a lanky, red-haired deputy answered. His nameplate read Carruthers. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. His gaze kept darting to the shrubbery at the roadside.
    Travis knew he was worried that Hickle would return for a second try, but there was little chance of that. Hickle had taken his best shot and failed. Now he was heading for some dark corner where he could console himself and lick his wounds. But he hadn’t had time to go far.
    “Either of you men care to join me in pursuit of an armed suspect?” Travis asked. “I think we can pick up his trail.”
    Carruthers wanted in on the action. The other deputy, less enthusiastic, elected to remain at the scene and wait for the paramedics.
    Travis drafted Pfeiffer to complete the posse. “Mahoney, you stand post over Drury and Mrs. Barwood. See if you can find some blankets for them. Drury looks like he’s shivering.”
    “Nice kid, Drury,” Pfeiffer said.
    “He’ll be all right. Let’s move.”
    The three of them set off together, Travis in the lead, Pfeiffer and Carruthers close behind. “What kind of firepower this son of a bitch packing?” Carruthers asked.
    “He used a shotgun in the assault. My information is that he also owns a rifle with a telescopic sight and laser sighting system. You wearing a vest, Deputy?”
    Carruthers snorted. “I wish. Thing is, this duty’s usually pretty quiet, and that vest gets hot.”
    “Pfeiffer?”
    “Yeah, I got on my Kevlar. How about you, Boss?”
    “Left mine at home.” Travis snapped a new magazine into his Walther. “Let’s hope Raymond doesn’t put up a fight.”
    Hickle ran blindly, lugging the duffel like a heavy load of guilt. Behind him there were sirens. He never looked back. He was afraid he would see a whole squadron of cops rushing after him.
    This was bad. This was a complete mess. In his imagination he had always carried out the attack perfectly. Yes, he had been arrested afterward, but only once Kris was dead and his immortality was assured.
    It was JackBNimble’s fault. In all his e-mail messages Jack had said not one word about armored plating on Kris’s car or bulletproof glass.
    “Not one goddamned word,” he gasped, furiously indignant, and then he blundered into a steel fence topped with razor wire.
    It was part of the fence that encircled the Reserve. He had reached the perimeter of the compound.
    Panic screamed in him. He was trapped.
    He could turn around, try hiding in the woods, but they would find him before long. There had to be another way. Think.
    The fence ran down to the water’s edge but no farther. He could slip around it onto the adjacent public beach, then use the access path to get back to his parked car.
    Limping on his bad ankle, he ran along the fence toward the sea. The last house on Malibu Reserve Drive loomed on his right. The space between the home’s side wall and the fence was narrow, but he crabwalked through, pulling the duffel after him. The shotgun, he noticed, was in the duffel now. Sometime during his run he must have stuffed it inside the bag to free his right hand. He couldn’t remember doing this. He was operating on instinct like any hunted animal.
    On the verge of the beach Hickle paused, afraid of the open space where he would be exposed and unprotected. If the police had anticipated his escape route, somebody might be watching thebeach even now. But he saw only white sand, the fringe of the surf, and above the water a few scattered rocks glistening with kelp. He risked going forward, kicking up sand as he ran. Where the fence ended, he sloshed into the tide and staggered ashore on the public beach.
    As he climbed a hill of damp sand above the low tide mark, it occurred to him that he was leaving tracks.
    He looked back. A line of shoe prints receded into the water. There must be a similar line on the other side of the fence and in the loose dirt of the woods. His enemies could follow him easily.
    As if on cue, a glow of flashlights appeared in the shadows between the last home and the fence. They were coming. At least two of them, maybe more.
    He ran for the path that led to the parking lot, but at the end of the path, beyond the trees and the dark roof of a ramada, danced