Staghorn tugged out his watch again. Two minutes. They had to be in focus! A second late and they'd be locked forever. He watched the second hand creep around the dial.
"We have to chance it," he said. "When I start running, run with me!"
The second hand crept on. A minute left. Staghorn judged the distance from their hiding place to the grassy plot where the bearded man was standing. About seventy-five yards. Could he do seventy-five yards in ten seconds? Could Peccary? Thirty seconds left ... twenty-five ... twenty. He'd never gone through such a painful count-down ... fifteen seconds.
"Ready, Dr. Peccary. It's now or never."
Thirteen ... twelve ... eleven ... "Go!"
Staghorn burst from his hiding place with Peccary at his heels. They dashed for the square. They were over the curb and into the street before the men in the park saw their approach and let out cries of triumph.
"Dip and weave, Dr. Peccary! Dip and weave!"
They dipped and wove, while bullets ripped at their clothing. They were running right into the fire, making better targets at every stride. Staghorn ran with his watch in his hand, and never had time and distance diminished so slowly.
Seven seconds, six, five, and they were still alive and across the street. Four seconds, three, two.
They were over the park and onto the grass. A bullet crashed into Staghorn's leg and he fell, diving forward.