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He didn't know how badly he was hurt. He couldn't show himself much longer or they'd find him.
    He thought of the hotel. The gunmen had intercepted him, trying to stop him from reaching it. He didn't understand why help wasn't here. The gunmen had used silencers. Maybe the rescue team didn't know he'd been shot.
    But he'd been hit on the street outside the hotel. Surely the rescue team had been watching. Why had they failed to rush out, to help him?
    Because they didn't know where he'd gone. They didn't want to jeopardize the integrity of the hotel. They were keeping their position in hope that he'd reach them. Get there.
    He saw a rusty Plymouth Duster parked at the curb, its -battered shape the only car on the shadowy block. If it wasn't locked. If it would start.
    if. He pulled the door. It opened. The keys weren't in the ignition switch. Chest aching, he bent down, fumbling beneath the dash, finding what he needed. He joined two wires. The Duster started.
    Clutching the wheel, he stomped the accelerator. The Duster roared from the curb. He screeched around a corner. Buildings blurred. The street seemed to shrink as he squealed around another corner.
    Ahead, he saw the hotel and veered toward the curb. In the light from the neon sign, his hunters couldn't use a nightscope. Its lens would magnify the light so much a gunman would be blinded.
    He jerked from the impact as the Duster hit the curb and shuddered across the sidewalk. Skidding to a stop before the grimy concrete steps, he shouldered open his door. The car was positioned so it gave him cover. He charged up the steps, hitting the entrance, slamming through. At once hedropped to the floor and spun to aim his handgun toward the street.
    He'd reached the hotel. He was safe.
    the silence stunned him. The rescue team? Where were they?
    Peering behind him, he saw only darkness. "Romulus!" he shouted, heard an echo, but received no answer.
    He crawled around, smelling dust and mildew. Where the hell-? The place was empty. Confused, he searched the murky lobby. No one. He checked the office and the rooms along the hall, darting glances toward the entrance, straining to listen for anyone coming.
    Completely deserted. Nothing had been prepared for his arrival. Not a secure location. Christ, this hotel had been the bait to lure him into a trap! They'd never expected him to get inside!
    He understood now that the men who'd waited here had indeed come out. But not to rescue him. Instead to track him down and kill him. They were out there searching for him. And the car outside would tell them where he was.
    He ran toward the door. Hurrying down the steps, he saw a gunman appear at the corner, aiming a short-barreled submachine gun, unmistakably an Uzi.
    Saul shot as he ran, seeing the gunman grab his arm and jerk behind the corner.
    He hadn't bothered to waste time reaching for the wires beneath the dash to turn off the Duster's engine. The driver's door hung open. He yanked the gearshift. Squealing, the car jolted off the sidewalk, fishtailing, roaring down the street. A volley of bullets shattered the rear windshield. Glass exploded over him. Slumping, he steered, trying to hide himself.
    On the corner ahead, another gunman stepped out. Saul swung the steering wheel in his direction, pressing the accelerator, racing toward him. Thirty feet, twenty. The gunman aimed a pistol. Ten feet. Suddenly the gunman broke his stance, diving in panic toward a doorway.
    Saul veered, avoiding a fire hydrant, speeding past the gunman, screeching down a side street. A cluster of bullets whacked the Duster.
    He skidded through an intersection, listing, racing down another side street. Checking his rearview mirror, glancing ahead, he saw no other gunmen.
    He was safe. But blood streamed down his chest where he'd been shot, and from his elbows where he'd cut himself breaking the window. Safe. But for how long?
    Despite his urgency, he eased his foot off the accelerator. Don't run traffic lights.