Page 161 of Paranoid

“He’s not the guy! He’s not the guy!” Dillinger was repeating. “It’s not Hollander. Hold your fire. It’s not Hollander!”

Three cops exposed themselves, their pistols drawn.

Through his earpiece Cade heard the frantic sound of Dillinger’s voice. “He’s coming out now! Watch out! The other guy snuck out in front of him, but Hollander’s coming out now!”

“Oh, shit,” Swanson swore.

“What the fuck?” the man in the cap said.

“Get him out of here,” Cade ordered Swanson, then to the man, “Sir, step aside. Now! Get down! Get down!”

“What?” the man said, his head whipping around as he noticed the other cops. “Oh, fuck!”

A second guy in full camo and a baseball cap filled the doorway.

Hollander!

“Aw, shit,” Swanson said.

“I’m going for him,” Dillinger announced.

Hollander, assessing the situation, quickly looked sharply around and started to back up, to retreat into the brewery.

Cade shouted, “Police! Bruce Hollander, put your hands in the air!”

Dillinger yelled, “Now! Hollander, put your hands where I can see ’em and get down.” More sounds came through the headset, sounds of patrons in the bar yelling as they tried to flee.

“We’ve got customers exiting out the back,” another cop said.

“Keep track of ’em,” Cade ordered, thinking Hollander might try to escape. “Watch for him.”

But that didn’t prove necessary.

As if zapped by a cattle prod, Hollander suddenly sprang forward as the man in the jean jacket hit the pavement, his cap flying off his bald head to skid along the sidewalk.

“Don’t shoot!” the guy on the sidewalk pleaded.

Hollander, seeing that he was trapped, yanked a gun from his pocket. “Get back!” he yelled, frantic, his eyes wide beneath the brim of his cap. “Get the fuck back!”

“Gun! He’s got a gun!” Cade warned, his own weapon trained on Hollander. Then to the suspect, “Drop your weapon! Now!”

Dillinger, weapon drawn, appeared in the doorway.

“Don’t shoot! For the love of—Don’t shoot!” the guy on the ground covered his bare head with his hands.

Hollander took a bead on Cade.

Blam!

The bullet hit him shoulder high, blowing him back, just as Cade squeezed the trigger. His shot went wild as he spun, his legs folding, the sidewalk rushing up at him. Crack! His head bounced against hard concrete. Pain jarred through his brain. His nose splintered, blood gushing in a warm rush.

“No!” he heard a woman yell. “No! No! No!”

“He’s hit! Ryder’s hit!” Swanson shouted.

“Get him! Get Hollander,” a different man yelled, but Cade couldn’t concentrate, didn’t recognize the voice. The world was spinning, streetlights and stars . . . and . . . it was hard to think. His mind was swimming, the safety of unconsciousness trying to pull him under.

He heard another burst of gunfire, crackling loudly for a few seconds, and somewhere in the back of his consciousness he was aware of people running, and screaming, the world spinning.