"But… what's that?" Gittleman pointed.

The marshal dropped the magazine to the floor, rose, and stepped to the window.

"A video camera?" Gittleman asked.

"Well, it looks like it. It does. Yeah."

"Is it… But it's not yours, is it?"

"No," the marshal muttered, frowning. "We don't have surveillance outside."

The marshal glanced at the thin cable that disappeared up, presumably to the room above them. His eyes continued upward until they came to rest on the ceiling.

"Shit!" he said, reaching for his radio.

The first cluster of bullets from the silenced machine gun tore through the plaster above them and ripped into Son One, who danced like a puppet. He dropped to the floor, bloody and torn. Shivering as he died.

"No!" Gittleman cried. "Jesus, no.'"

He leapt toward the phone. A stream of bullets followed him; upstairs the killer would be watching on the video camera, knowing exactly where Gittleman was.

Gittleman pressed himself flat against the wall. The gunman fired another shot. A single. It was close. Then two more. Inches away. Teasing him, it seemed like. Nobody would hear. The only sound was the cracking of plaster and wood.

More shots followed him as he dodged toward the bathroom. Debris flew around him. There was a pause. He hoped the killer had given up and fled. But it turned out that he was after the phone-so Gittleman couldn't call for help. Two bullets cracked through the ceiling, hit the beige telephone unit, and shattered it into a hundred pieces.

"Help!" he cried, nauseated with fear. But, of course, the rooms on either side of this one were empty-a fact so reassuring a few moments ago, so horrifying now.

Tears of fright in his eyes…

He rolled into a corner, knocked a lamp over to darken the room.

More bullets crashed down. Closer, testing. Trying to find him. The gunman upstairs, watching a TV screen of his own, just like Gittleman had been watching Charlton Heston a few minutes ago.