The Berserker

'Twas said of The Berserker ... when an opening comes he'll play for it, and he'll do it with a single-minded violence.
All of Big Jim Ostby's attention seemed on the cigar as he lit it, but it was not. He observed the faces of the men who passed him by, and the figures of those across the street, and up and down the sidewalk. Satisfied, he moved on.
Ostby's six feet four, and two hundred thirty-five pounds, were not conspicuous on this other-dimensional world, where his size was but little above average. And only the sharpest observer would have noted the leashed aliveness of the instrument of sinew and muscle which was his body.
Deliberately Ostby avoided the shadows. That way lay danger. Reason, abetted by an instinctive capacity for adaptation, told him blending in with his background offered the best concealment.
By now the whole district would know that the police were after him. He wondered what the latest reports were. Casually he slowed his pace until two men behind him drew near enough to be overheard.
They say the police have the Berserker cornered in our half of the Flats, one of the men said.
If they trap 'im there's gonna be some dead police before the night's over, the second answered. He ain't called the Berserker for nothing.
I'd hate to be in his shoes. They've got a net around the district that a fly couldn't get through.
I'd hate to be one of the police that corners him.
He'll never get away this time.
I wouldn't bet against him if I was you. The gamblers in the street are giving odds of two to one that he makes it.
How do you figure he's got a chance?