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and fought together long enough to develop a silent form of communication. And Jericho knew Chicago was worried about him. Hell, he’s got good cause, Jericho brooded. I’m worried myself.
    Jericho’s thoughts were cut short by the red flare of the limo’s brake lights ahead. As Chicago slowed down, Jericho opened the door and hit the ground running. “We’re exposed,” Jericho drawled into his cuff mike, alerting the helicopter. Chicago left the sedan and covered Jericho’s back as he trotted to the limo and opened the door. The limo driver, another Striker Security guard, got out and covered the street.
    When the client emerged, he was met by four executives who’d been waiting for their honored guest in front of the bank building. Jericho stood to one side as the executives bowed and scraped, his intense gaze assessing each pedestrian and passing vehicle.
    A metallic glint caught the corner of his eye and he glanced up. As the client walked toward the bank, Jericho scanned the old-fashioned brick building next door. Nothing.
    Then he spotted it again—near the top of the fire escape, like sunlight glinting off a mirror. Most would have dismissed it. Instantly, Jericho sprang into combat mode.
    â€œSky Two—fire escape southwest sector,” he called hoarsely.
    Sam Yates tilted the hovering ’copter and peered down at the brick building next to the bank. Both its roof and grilled fire escape were deserted. “Fire escape negative…”
    â€œYou’re wrong!” Jericho barked. “ Shooter! Evac! Evac!”
    As Chicago and the driver fumbled for their weapons, Jericho grabbed the client by the shoulders, spun him around, and tossed him headfirst into the limo. A gunshot cracked, adding to the confusion. Jericho looked back. Suddenly his tailored suit jacket exploded twice in quick sequence as hollow-point bullets blasted him squarely in the chest. Falling, Jericho slammed the limo door shut.
    The limousine took off screeching, knocking Jericho aside as it fled the scene. Chicago raced toward Jericho’s crumpled body while uniformed security guards rushed out of the bank. Amidst the frantic chaos, Chicago felt strangely calm. Jericho lay motionless on the cement. Chicago knelt beside him and fingered the gaping bullet holes in his shirt.
    â€œCall NYPD and get an ambulance,” Chicago yelled into the tiny microphone wired to his cuff. He looked down, rough features tight with concern.
    â€œC’mon … Get up, you pussy,” Chicago muttered urgently.
    Jericho stirred. His eyelids fluttered open and he regarded Chicago accusingly. “I thought it was your turn to get shot.”
    Chicago slowly exhaled. “No. I got it last time.” He reached out and helped Jericho to his feet. Jericho ripped open the front of his shirt. Both bullets were imbedded in his Kevlar vest.
    â€œWhat a morning. I should have stayed in bed.”
    Chicago squinted up at the brick building. “Too bad you wore the vest, man. You could have been out of your misery.”
    The barb struck home. Ignoring the pain stabbing his torso, Jericho followed Chicago’s gaze. “Where’s the shooter?”
    â€œHeading for the roof.”
    â€œThen why are we down here?”
    Before Jericho finished the question, Chicago was calling the helicopter. Immediately the craft descended, but it couldn’t land. Stalled traffic clogged the entire block.
    Jericho didn’t hesitate. Nimbly he mounted the trunk of the nearest car, then leaped onto the vinyl roof. With Chicago close behind, Jericho raced across the jammed car rooftops until he reached the hovering copter. Both men stepped onto the skid and scrambled on board. Immediately the helicopter lifted off.
    â€œThere,” Chicago said, pointing at a white-haired figure climbing the fire escape of the brick building. They watched him through the side window.
    The fleeing shooter climbed