SEVEN

A bone-chilling wind gusted in off the Hudson River, just a few blocks away. I wore no coat, only my slacks, a thin sweater, and an apron for warmth.

But that wasn’t why I was shivering.

With every step I anticipated the thunderclap of the rifle, and the punch and burn of a bullet ripping through me. My spine tingled. I felt a bull’s-eye on the back of my neck. Time slowed to a crawl, but I kept going.

I heard Quinn calling after me—okay, he was yelling at me like crazy—but it wasn’t the most opportune time to debate my actions.

Meanwhile, the sirens seemed no closer, their advance slowed by rush-hour traffic, now at a complete stop along Hudson.

Finally, I dropped to the glacial concrete beside Sully’s still form. His back was turned, so I shook his shoulder and called his name.

No response.

Quinn tried again to move out of cover—and another shot dinged the Village Blend’s redbrick facade.

“Stay down!” I shouted. “I told you, the sniper’s only shooting at police!”

“And you know that . . . for sure?”

There was a shockingly calm irony in Quinn’s reply that shouldn’t have surprised me, given the countless firefights he’d been in. But then he was the one who’d told me—

“Cool, clear thinking is what gets you through. Emotion is what gets you killed . . .”

I clung to that advice. Using Quinn as my example, I beat down the rising panic as another shot rang out. This one sounded different and also much closer and easier to pinpoint!

It had come from the rooftop directly across from the Village Blend. The shot failed to hit anyone (thank goodness), and Quinn quickly returned fire, giving me cover.

With no better target in plain sight, I realized the shooter might be trying to finish off Sully, so before I administered first aid, I decided to drag him behind the delivery van. But when I turned him over, I changed my mind.

Sully’s gaze was unfocused, his eyelids fluttering, his pale flesh cold as the morning air.

My hands came away sticky with blood, and I soon found a ghastly hole above Sully’s left elbow. I compressed the wound, but blood continued to gush around my fingers. If the flow was not stopped, Sully could bleed to death before the ambulance came.

As I untied my Village Blend apron and tugged it off, a creeping chill transferred from the pavement right up my spine. I quickly tore up the blue fabric, circled the strips around Sully’s wound, and wound the apron strings around his arm, several inches above the injury.

When I pulled my instant tourniquet tight, Sully groaned.

“Hang in there, Sully! Help is coming . . .”

And, thank God, some was already here. Within a few seconds, I’d managed to slow the scarlet tide to a trickle.

Holding the tourniquet in place, I searched the rooftop directly across the street from the Village Blend but saw no one. Another bang came from there, and Quinn fired several times, appearing to scare the shooter back.

Now I scanned the entire area, looking for any others in need of help. That’s when I noticed something moving on a nearby roof. It was that vacant building, the one I’d complained about at the community board meeting.

Kids had been using the Dumpsters to boost themselves onto the fire escape and up to the roof. But I doubted any partying was going on at this hour of the morning.

Something black and flowing fluttered into view and then disappeared again.

I shouted at Quinn, asking if he could see the building. The Village Blend sat on a corner, and the abandoned building was partway down the cross street we shared—it would be hard for Quinn to see from his vantage. But he wasn’t paying attention to my pointing. He was on his smartphone again, his eyes on the rooftop directly across from the coffeehouse, where the loud bangs had gone off. Then his attention moved to the sky.

Why the sky?

Suddenly, my ears were battered as an NYPD helicopter swept over the building where we’d last heard shots fired. It flew so low the churning blades shook power lines and rattled windows and doors. Downdrafts battered the few pedestrians who remained.

Still tending Sully, I blinked against the maelstrom.

Men in SWAT team jackets hung out of the helicopter doors, searching the rooftop for the hidden sniper.

I jumped when a gentle hand touched my shoulder. Then I saw the pair of tense paramedics, here to treat Sully, and I felt a rush of relief.

The man and woman bent low to speak to me. I saw their lips move, but the hovering machines annihilated all sounds. It didn’t matter. I understood and relinquished the tourniquet, so the paramedics could begin their (please, God!) lifesaving work.

Shivering, I got back on my feet and immediately spied officers in bulletproof vests, storming the building across the street. I shouted to them, trying to get their attention. But the noise was fierce, communication impossible.

Certain I’d spotted a second shooter that no one else had, I ran along the cross street, toward the empty building, confident Mike Quinn would see me and follow.