her Combat Master, appreciating the feel of the checkered walnut grip against the palm of her right hand.
A Roamer, blood streaming from a shrapnel-inflicted gash on his cheek, jumped in her path, his discolored teeth bared in a snarl of rage. With neat precision, she clubbed him across the mouth with the barrel of her autopistol. He reeled away, spitting scarlet and crumbs of his shattered teeth.
As Domi stepped around him, she saw a dark-complexioned man wearing a yellow turban racing toward Grant with a three-foot-long sword held over his head, readying himself to deliver a decapitating blow. Because of the roar of the crowd, she couldn’t hear what he said, even though his lips worked as if he was shrieking a stream of imprecations.
Moving on impulse, almost without thought, Domi leveled her autopistol and swiftly brought the turbaned man into target acquisition. Twenty yards was long range for the handgun, especially aiming at a moving target, but she had made far more difficult shots. When the sword-wielding figure was framed within the weapon’s sights, she adjusted for elevation and windage, then she squeezed the trigger two times.
The big automatic pistol bucked in her hands, sending out booming shock waves of ear-shattering sound. The first .45-caliber bullet hit the man directly in the center of his turban and the other struck his neck. He catapulted backward amid a spouting of blood.
The people around him scattered at the sound of the shots, running in all directions. Because the majority of the crowd was composed of hard-bitten, violence-prone Roamers, they didn’t indulge in a panic-stricken flight. They took cover either in the ruins or they dropped flat to the street, eyes and guns seeking targets.
Domi glimpsed the huge dark bulk of Shuma hustling away from the Cadillac, a limp shape cradled protectively in his arms. She guessed the scalie was ferrying his small companion away to safety, but she couldn’t understand why he would care.
She didn’t devote any further thought to the matter. She kept her gaze fixed on Grant as he strained against the bonds that held him to the hood of the vehicle. Wisps of steam from the punctured radiator still curled around him, like an early-morning fog.
Through a part in the vapors, Domi a saw a scar-faced woman with a bizarre purple-tinged Mohawk haircut shouldering her way through the press of bodies, using the stock of a Stoner machine gun to hammer a path. Her narrowed eyes were turned toward Grant.
Domi came to a halt and sighted down the length of her pistol, aiming at a spot between the woman’s exposed, tattooed breasts. Too late she sensed a rushing body behind her. Arms encircled her in an agonizingly tight grip, lifting her from the ground. She smelled stale sweat and hot, rancid breath washed over her cheek.
As she tried to bring up her pistol, the arms tightened around her in a crushing embrace, pumping all the air from her lungs. Gasping, she kicked backward, the edge of her boot heel striking his shin. Her next tactic was to butt the man with the back of her head. This move was marginally more effective because he swore in pain, but the pressure of his pinioning arms increased, closing like the jaws of a vise.
Through blurry eyes, Domi saw the bare-breasted woman raising her Stoner, resting the stock against her hip, the hollow bore staring at her like a cyclopean eye. Domi struggled wildly.
A short tongue of flame lipped from the muzzle. The sound of the single shot was like a muffled handclap. Domi squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the man holding her jerk violently as if he received a blow. His grip loosened and his arms fell away altogether. Domi stumbled when the man dropped, but she saw the neat red-rimmed hole in the middle of his forehead and the far-from-neat cavity in the rear of his skull.
She threw the Mohawked woman an uncomprehending stare. She smiled at Domi in amusement, inclined her head in a nod and gestured with her autorifle toward Grant.
“He’s all yours, sweetheart!” she called.
Then she turned and merged into the bustling crowd.
Breathing hard, Domi reached Grant, drawing her knife. He turned his head toward her and demanded, “What kind of rescue plan is this—to parboil my ass?”
As the edge of the blade sliced through the ropes encircling his right wrist, she answered, “The Kane kind.”
Grant gusted out a weary sigh. “Why did I even have to ask.”
Domi couldn’t help but grin as she cut the big man free. Although he looked bruised and battered, the fact that he could complain and criticize meant he wasn’t hurt too severely.
As Grant pushed himself off the hood of the Cadillac and stood massaging his wrists, Brigid Baptiste pounded up, holding her TP-9 in a two-fisted grip. Her green eyes glinted, bright with worry.
“Are you all right?” she asked, looking Grant up and down and wincing slightly at the abrasions and contusions on his face. “Do you need medical treatment?”
He shook his head. “Later, maybe.”
Brigid turned toward Domi. “We lost contact with you and almost scrubbed the op.”
Gingerly, the girl touched the Commtact behind her ear and when she withdrew her hand, her fingertips glistened with wet crimson. “Took a wallop there,” she said with a wry smile. “Mashed it up pretty good but probably kept me from a broken head.”
She glanced toward the nearby buildings rising from the skyline. “Where’s Kane and everybody else at?”
“I just spoke to him,” Brigid said. “He, Edwards and Brady are on their way to us. Once we rendezvous, let’s get to the jump chamber and gate back to Cerberus.”
She paused and smiled without humor. “I’ve pretty much had my fill of New York, New York.”
Grant matched her humorless smile. “Yeah, it’s a hell of a town. But we can’t leave it right now.”
A voice from behind them asked, “Why the hell not?”
They turned as Kane jogged up. His dark hair was white with plaster dust, his face and clothes coated with a pale film. With every footfall, little clouds of dust puffed up around him.
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