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of the wall and door, causing him to disappear back inside.  
    I grabbed the back of Carver’s jacket and backpedaled down the hallway. Pulling Carver with my left hand, keeping aim at the door with my right. Farther and farther back, until the shooter appeared again.  
    I squeezed the trigger—one, two, three, four shots until there was nothing else.  
    “Shit,” I said, because my magazine was empty, because I knew I didn’t have time to reload.  
    But the shooter must not have realized this. He must have assumed I was taking my time again, waiting for him to reappear.  
    On the floor Carver was still groaning, gurgling, choking on his blood. I glanced down and saw he still had hold of his Glock.  
    I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. We only had another ten, fifteen yards before we reached the bank of elevators. Not too far, sure, but distance and time are both relative while you’re dragging a dying man and you’re out of bullets and the man who’s trying to kill you is just biding his time.  
    I dropped the Sig and went to grab Carver’s Glock.  
    He wouldn’t let go.  
    “Carver, come on!”  
    But he was oblivious. Still groaning, still gurgling. And staring down at his face, I became aware he was also trying to speak.  
    “Ba—ba,” he was saying, his dark face becoming somehow pale, and at that moment I sensed movement further up the hall. I knew the shooter was going to make another appearance, so I did the only thing I could think to do—I stomped on Carver’s hand, the one holding his gun. He let go. I grabbed it and immediately started firing.  
    This time the shooter didn’t have a room to disappear into. He had already begun to advance and had to push himself up against the doorframe of the next room, as if this was somehow going to save him. By that time I had reached the elevator bank.  
    Somehow I’d made it, dragging Carver the entire way. I yanked on the back of Carver’s jacket some more, pulling him back completely, then went to the corner of the hallway, peeked around.  
    The shooter was peeking from the doorframe too, his rifle aimed toward me.  
    I reached around the wall, started firing, just as he started firing.  
    A moment later I was back on the floor with Carver, feeling for a pulse, staring down at his paling face as he continued to try to speak.  
    “Ba—boo,” he was whispering, gurgling, groaning.  
    “Shh,” I told him, glancing at the four elevators, at the fire door, at the ceiling.  
    I heard heavy footsteps coming my way.  
    I glanced down at Carver’s face. His dark eyes stared up at me, or past me, it was impossible to tell.  
    His mouth moved, trying to form words, and he attempted again, saying, “Boo—boo— boojum .”  
    I stared down at him another moment, a moment that seemed to last a very long time. I realized the footsteps were getting even closer, that they were right around the corner, and before I realized it I’d stood up, Carver’s gun in my hands, and started firing again. Walking closer and closer to the corner, taking out even bigger chunks of the wall.  
    Wherever the shooter was behind the corner, he wasn’t going to come out in the next couple of seconds. He was waiting for something, though whatever that something was I had no clue.  
    I backed up then, right next to Carver, who was still on the floor, blood all over his chest and soaking the intricate design of the seashell carpet.  
    “Boo— boojum ,” he said again, more emphasis this time, and I glanced down at his face, saw his eyes staring back at me, relating something I never thought I’d see there, something I didn’t want to believe was true.  
    Carver nodded at me, just slightly, and without a word or any further hesitation I started running.  
    Right as I made it to the fire door I sensed the shooter behind me. I turned back. Watched the shooter step around the corner and stride purposefully toward Carver. The rifle no longer in his