About fucking time that frog showed up.

Molly’s grip tightened, her short unpainted fingernails digging into the back of Pierre’s hand.

Too bad he’s not alone — but maybe Grozny will like it better this way.

Molly spoke in a quavering whisper so low it was almost lost on the breeze: “Let’s get out of here.” Pierre’s eyebrows went up, but he quickened his pace. Molly stole a glance over her shoulder. “He’s up off the bench now,” she said softly. “He’s walking toward us.”

She scanned the landscape ahead. A hundred feet in front of them was the campus’s north gate, with the deserted cafes of Euclid Avenue beyond.

To the left was a fence separating the university from Hearst Avenue. To the right, more redwoods and Haviland Hall, home of the School of Social Welfare. Most of its windows were dark. A bus rumbled by outside the fence — the last bus for a long time, this late. Pierre chewed his lower lip.

Footfalls were approaching softly behind them. He reached into his pocket, and Molly could hear the soft tinkle of him maneuvering his keys between his fingers.

Molly opened the zipper on her white leather purse and extracted her rape whistle. She chanced another glance back, and — Christ, a knife! “Run!” she shouted, and veered to the right, bringing the whistle to her lips.

The sound split the night.

Pierre surged forward, heading straight for the north gate, but after eating up a few yards of path, he looked back. Perhaps now that the man knew the element of surprise was gone, he’d just hightail it in the opposite direction, but Pierre had to be sure that the guy hadn’t taken off after Molly—$

— and that was Pierre’s mistake. The man had been lagging behind — Pierre had longer legs and had started running sooner — but Pierre’s slowing down to look gave the man a chance to close the distance.