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just open fire. Maybe the gunman didn’t care if he hit innocent bystanders, but the journalist sure as fuck did.
    Another bullet zinged off the building just above his head , spraying brick dust. Buchanan trundled toward the corner, around which was the street-level entrance to the building’s underground parking garage. Maybe, if he got to his vehicle, he could get away long enough to ring the police.   
    No sooner did he reach the door than he heard a car peel away from the curb. Heart lurching, he raced down the stairs, clutching the railing for support. The garage, empty of people, smelled of exhaust, petrol fumes, and motor oil. The fluorescents overhead washed the space in a surreal yellow glow. One of them flickered in a way that bothered his eyes.
    Mu scles tense, nerve-endings tingling, he dug in his pocket for his keys. Luckily, he had them with him. As he depressed the unlock button, his vehicle—a Galway Green Land Rover—chirped. He hurried toward it, mindful of the car coming down the ramp. He broke into a run, wincing at the pain in his bum knee. A few feet from the car, he dropped and slid underneath.
    A silver sedan came into view, its headlamps off. Squinting, Buchanan strained to read the license plate, but couldn’t. The driver didn’t bother to stop at the gate. The arm snapped like balsawood. The car came toward him, tires squealing as it turned.
    Taking aim, he squeezed the trigger.
    B lam. Blam.
    The passenger window shattered.
    B lam. Blam.
    A back tire burst in a cloud of white smoke.
    As the rear-end fishtailed, Buchanan pushed backward and scooted out on the far side of his Land Rover. Gun smoke and burning rubber burned his nostrils and throat. Staying down, he got in and maneuvered his way to the driver’s seat. Bullets sprayed the door as he slipped the key into the ignition. The window shattered, showering him with safety-glass shrapnel. He fired two more shots out the window, popped out the spent magazine, dug in the glove compartment for a new one, and jammed it into place. More bullets loudly pierced the door. One of the rear windows exploded, spraying glass like buckshot. He squeezed off two more rounds.
    He started the engine, shoved the gearshift into reverse, and hit the gas. The tires screamed. He cranked the steering wheel, keeping his head down, slammed it into drive, and punched the accelerator. The car rocketed forward, splintering the remaining gate. Pursuing shots blew out the rear window. At the top of the ramp, he made a hard right onto Sixth. Tires screeched and horns blared. He braced himself for the impact, but none came. He sat up, heart hammering, and checked the rearview mirror.
    There was no sign of the gunmen , thank God.
    He pulled out his phone and punched 9-1-1. It rang twice before an operator answered.
    “What’s your emergency?”
    He told her what had happened and hung up, gaze bouncing around like a bee-bee in a box. Now what?
    Remembering the phone call, he fished in his back pocket, pulled out Thea’s card, and punched in her cell-phone number, keeping one eye on the road. It rang several times. Just as he was about to hang up, she answered.
    “ Thea? It’s Alex Buchanan.”
    “Well, hello there,” she said, sounding glad to hear from him. “Has there been a break in the case?”
    “ You could say that,” he said, still breathing hard. “But not as far as the cops are concerned. Listen, Thea. I need to find your grandfather. Tonight. Right this minute.”
    “I don’t understand .”
    He filled her in on what Lapdog had told him.
    “ He told me not to tell anybody where he is,” she said, irking him.
    “Surely he’d make an exception under the circumstances,” he argued, sweaty grip tightening on the wheel. “Why don’t you call him and ask?”
    “That’s just it,” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach him all day—but without success.”
    “Then take me to him ,” Buchanan demanded.
    “ I don’t know…”
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