Germ

"What? I . . ." Allen started, then: "That looks like . . . I thought you said he was dead. You said he got blown away. That can't be him."

"It is him. That's the guy I saw the cops kill last night."

Her hand went to her pistol. It rested on the handgrip as she watched the assassin pause for a woman exiting the bank. He slipped into the space behind her, and the glass door closed. He was inside.

forty

"It wasn't him." Allen was leaning close to her, his hand on her shoulder. Already they were drawing stares.

"You know it was." But how? She had not seen a bruise or cut or bullet wound.

He echoed her thoughts: "How can that be?"

"I don't know. I just—don't know." Her mind poked at possibilities, but none of them made any sense. "We have to get Stephen out of there." She pulled out her mobile phone, flipped it open, and dialed 411.

"I thought we didn't want to use cell phones."

"They already know where we are." She recited the name of the bank. Ten seconds later, a computer voice informed her it was making the connection at no additional charge.

Allen said, "He might follow Stephen into the bathroom. Or the way these guys are, just go after him right in the lobby."

"I know, Allen. Shut up a second."

The receptionist inside the bank answered. Julia made her voice low and gravelly. "There's a bomb inside the building. In two minutes, you're soup." She flipped the phone shut. Two minutes would not give the bank manager time to consider his options.

"Soup?" Allen asked.

"Nice image, huh? If you were that receptionist, think you'd be giving the manager an earful about evacuating the building?"

"I'd probably just leave."

She looked at him. If he was joking, he showed no sign of it.

"Let's hope she's cut from a different bolt."

She hoisted the gym bag to her side, pulling the strap over her head to cross her body like a bandolier. She didn't want to lose it if things got crazy. They walked around the tables in front of them and stepped over the railing. She hoped Stephen would pile out with the crowd and beeline it for them. She'd lead them around the corner to her car, staving off the killer with her pistol, if necessary.

The bank doors swung open, and a nicely dressed woman shot out at the head of a massive knot of people. They pushed and shoved and exploded from the narrow doorway, spilling into the street. Cars braked and stopped. Somehow, the word had spread to the three-story building's upper floors; Julia could see bodies moving quickly out of the front-facing offices.

"Yell at him when he comes out," she said. "Tell him to run, just run. Anywhere."

She stepped off the curb. She was considering going into the bank. A movement in a second-floor window caught her eye.

It was Stephen.

He was looking through the closed window at the insanity on the sidewalk below, then he raised his head, searching for Allen and Julia. She waved her arms. He spotted her and shrugged.

Come on! she motioned.

He nodded and pushed up on the frame. It wouldn't budge. He leaned over and made a hammering gesture. Someone had nailed the windows shut, probably upon retrofitting the building with central air. He tried again. She could see his face contort. With a crack she could hear from across the street, the window frame splintered and the glass panel rose six inches . . . Another heave and it opened to a foot . . . then another two—enough for him to climb through.

She ran to the street's center line, sensing Allen behind her. Cars had stopped in both directions as bank customers and office workers milled about on the far side of the street. Heat radiated from the blacktop. Beads of perspiration sprang out on her forehead, her upper lip.

"Get out now!" she yelled.

The crowd, noticing the big man somehow stuck in the doomed building, joined in. Shouts rang out: "Come on, man!" "Get out!" "Jump!"

But the second floor was too high above the concrete pavement.

"He's in the bank, Stephen!" Allen called. "The killer!"

Stephen's face changed from confusion to concern. He began assessing his options. He eyed the arching fabric canopy jutting out from an expensive perfume shop next door.

"Hang from the ledge! Hang and fall! Now, Stephen, now!"

He nodded and immediately swung his leg through the opening. The crowd roared its approval. Crouching on the ledge, facing the window, he assessed the distance down, scanned the edge for handholds. His right hand clutched an envelope. He began to lower himself from the ledge when a shadow flashed in the room behind him. Wood and glass exploded over him. A fist shot out, grabbing hold of the hair on top of his head. Stephen jerked his head around, tethered to the fist. He wrenched his head back hard and lunged away from the window as far as his arms would stretch. A black arm and fist came out of the window, missing his face by inches.