One instant, he was standing still, hands thrust in the wet
trenchcoat. The next, a heavy revolver exploded at his hip. A
sledgehammer caught me in the right side, knocked me reeling.
It occurred to me then, lying there on the road, cold rain pelting my
face, a warm wetness spreading along my side. I had met the one pitfall
we shall never escape in a pistol-packing society: the man who's faster
with a gun than you are!
Bending over me, Sgt. Nicolas Falasca picked up the little plastic
Cooling gun and straightened up, peering at it, scowling. "What the
hell!" he muttered.