The keys were still in the ignition and I tugged them out as I dragged the door shut and flung them hard into his face and kicked away from the door to give me the impetus for a horizontal dive that took me clear of the steering wheel with my right fist punching the horn to provide sound shock and my left hand wrenching at the driver's door handle and the main force of the momentum sending me through the gap as the door burst open and the retaining strap broke and the panel smashed back against the bodywork. The first shot ruffled the sleeve of my coat and shattered the window: he'd shouted something, maybe a cry of alarm because of the horn, and the soft wet phutt of the silencer came an instant afterwards. I was into the snow and lurching on to my feet and losing balance and trying to find it again. If I went underneath the car I'd be a sitting duck so I feinted to the right with my head and shoulders visible to him through the shattered window and dropped and span the other way with the sickening rush of a close shot fanning my temple. There was a row of cars immediately behind the Syrena and I went hard for cover and slipped on the snow and crashed down and dug my heels in and went forward again and reached the front end of a snow-covered Pobeda before he loosed the third shot and hit a headlamp and sprayed me with glass and fired again and hit my shoulder before I could use full cover. The 9 mm. Smith and Wesson had eight shots in the magazine and he'd used four and I'd have to remember to go on counting because that could become critical if I lived through the next few minutes. He was taking it badly. He was a family man and too well fed and I'd been picking away at his nerves ever since I'd got him alone in the underground car park, threatening to pitch him out of the Syrena on our way here, so forth. The work I'd done on his carotid and medial nerves had worried him and the strike I'd used on him in Schrenk's apartment must still be giving him pain. He knew me well enough to realize that if he slipped on the snow and I got to him before he could aim and fire I might kill him out of hand. A professional hunter would have used this experience to his own advantage and move well away from the quarry and take careful aim before putting in the final accurate shot. This man was not a professional hunter: he was afraid of the creature he had to exterminate and his fear confused him. He'd already wasted four shots: half the entire magazine. But of course he only needed one, even a lucky one, to drop me cold. I'd lost sight of him and that was dangerous but he wouldn't know that. I was crouched under cover of the Pobeda and all he had to do was lie flat and take aim and smash one of my ankles to subdue me and stop me running but he hadn't thought of that: because of his fear he was thinking more about being attacked than attacking me. I was beginning to know him. Then I saw his face and as the gun flashed my shoes slipped and dug in and I went sideways and then forwards, hurling myself towards the car immediately behind and feeling the bite as a bullet scored a neck muscle and smashed into the bodywork of the car alongside. I ran hard but it was open ground and my feet were slipping as the cold air pumped into my lungs and froze the neck wound as I lunged for the pickup truck in the corner and slipped again and hit the front wing and went down with one foot dragging and my back exposed. I could hear him following and I think he slipped once and went down because his breath grunted out and there was a scuffling sound; then I was behind the truck and moving towards its rear, backing and facing the way I'd come. I couldn't hear him now. Blood was seeping into the collar of my coat from the neck wound. The shoulder had been oozing and filling the sleeve but there was no artery hit or I would have weakened by this time; my left arm was still usable and there was no other damage. I stood in a half crouch, listening to the silence. He would be dose to the truck, on the other side: from here I could see the open ground I'd run across and he wasn't there. He had two more shots left in the magazine and he might be aware of that: he wouldn't like it but he'd now have to stalk me at close range and make sure of a lethal hit when he fired next. I didn't want to lie flat and sight for his feet underneath the truck because I'd be too vulnerable if he rushed me; I had to rely on auditory cues alone for information but they wouldn't be very strong: his breathing and the brittle sound of the snow when he moved. For the moment I heard nothing; the night was grave quiet. The snow was fresh in the lee of the truck and I scooped it into my hands and compressed it, making a snowball, kneading it until it was heavy and iron-hard. I would need to blind him or hit the wound on his temple if I were going to do any good but there'd be no time to aim before he fired and he wouldn't fire until I was securely in his sights: he had learned from the uselessness of those six shots. I waited, with the snowball gradually melting through my fingers. He was moving now: I heard the faint crunching of snow from the front of the truck. It was a risk but I dropped flat and sighted along the underside of the truck and saw his face and the blossoming flash of