The 13 th tribe

[43]

When the shooting started, Jagger was on a rooftop terrace. He had pursued footsteps, but every time he thought he was right on top of whoever was making them, he’d found no one. Coming to believe the phantom sounds were tricks of the compound’s jumbled buildings, he’d started back toward the front gate. He’d seen boot prints in the blast’s sediment and had been following them when the footfalls led him a different direction.

The first gunshot-the deep boom of a shotgun-got him spinning and reaching for a firearm he didn’t have. Another blast. He ran toward the sounds, the back corner of the compound. Then a barrage of small-arms fire. Two guns, at least. He pictured a monk facing off with a hit man, blasting away at each other. He wasn’t sure what he could do without a firearm of his own, but he’d figure that out when he got there.

More than anything, Tyler dominated his thoughts. He remembered a gut-wrenching news clip of a schoolboy killed in the crossfire of rival gangs and pushed himself to move faster. He vaulted over a short wall and leaped from one roof to another. Please, Tyler, be where I left you. Please Hands shoved him off the roof. Turning as he fell, he saw that the walkway was vacant, no one there to push him off. But he’d felt the shove, two distinct points of impact, on his left bicep and left side. At the same time, a leg had swept his feet out from under him. He came down on his back, the wind burst from his lungs, his head cracked against the stone ground. As he heaved for air, shadows rushed over him from the alleys and eaves and corners. His vision went dark.