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out for us."
    Crown grabbed Maura's torso and hoisted him to the rail. He lifted his friend over the pipe, pushed him outward, and dropped him into the Chicago River. As soon as he released Maura, Crown vaulted onto the railing, balanced precariously for an instant, and kicked out from the bridge. The sound of a second shot chased him as he fell toward the black river.
    Water as cold as the Chicago River in November is not just cold. It is numbing. Crown tried to fight to the surface, but his limbs seemed disconnected from his body. His legs were impersonal and apart. His forehead throbbed from the cold. Thumbs of freezing water pushed his eyeballs deep into their sockets. His lungs were paralyzed. But somehow he rose and broke the surface of the river.
    Crown shook the water from his eyes. Maura was bobbing eight feet away and was gagging from inhaled water. His arms beat the river, trying to keep himself afloat. As he reached Maura, warmth brushed Crown's leg. It was Maura's blood, drifting away in the Chicago River.
    "No way to treat a friend." Maura coughed as Crown grabbed his collar and pulled him into a floating position onhis back. The freezing water had taken the glaze from Maura's eyes. He was badly hurt, maybe dying, but he was thinking.
    "Let's make it to those boats," Crown said as he tasted the oily film of the river water.
    Crown began a one-arm swim to the concrete river shore lined with fishing vessels listing against their moorages. Small waves splashed against the swimmers, and Crown's wet scalp was so cold it felt as if an invisible hand was tearing his hair. Coldness gripped his chest like a vise and made breathing a concerted effort. He kicked against the water and pulled the Basque behind him. Maura stiffened when Crown's leg jabbed a mangled knee.
    "God damn, John," Maura gasped in pain, "easy. My legs have been on the short end already tonight."
    They fought through a few yards of freezing water, and Crown was already out of breath. He tried to time his breathing with the waves, gulping air in the troughs. Maura sputtered as a wave drowned his inhale.
    The Basque's hand slapped wildly at Crown's head. Crown stopped his awkward struggle and saw Maura pointing to the wooden steps connecting the bridge to the river shore below. The driver and passenger of the Buick were scrambling down the stairs to the shore and boats. Through the watery film in his eyes, Crown saw that they each carried a black pistol. The leader stopped at the landing and stared down at the swimmers to gauge their direction. He intended to complete his job while Crown and Maura were perfect targets bobbing helplessly in the Chicago River.
    There was no choice. Crown side-kicked, pulled Maura around, and began to swim back to the center of the river. Fatigue and intense cold were quickly draining his strength and made the river feel like molasses. One of the henchmen aimed his pistol. His partner nudged him and nodded to the nearest fishing boat tied to the riverbank.
    The leader ran to the trawler and climbed over the gunwales. He descended the cabin ladder, and the boat's interior light flashed on. The high whimper of a frightened voice wavered across the river. Then a short, corpulent man, dressed in wool long johns, climbed to the deck. The gunman followed, his pistol dug into the fisherman's neck. They climbed the steep ladder to the controls above the cabin. The second assassin untied the mooring lines and jumped on board. The boat's diesel engine boomed. Stern water boiled as the propeller whipped the river water. The boat pulled away from shore.
    The vessel ominously turned toward Crown and Maura. The wooden hull split the water into frothing halves as the boat bore down on its targets. The second gunman walked to the bow, leaned against the bow railing, and casually revolved the cylinder of his weapon. He stared down at the floating men as the boat closed the gap. Crown saw the assassin's thin smile.
    Even without his friend