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He needed to get closer to his target, but not so close he would scare him off and ruin Lyneea’s approach.

Quickly Riker peered around the half-destroyed corner—and almost paid the price for it. But just before the cornerstones erupted again in an explosion of blue light, he caught a glimpse of something helpful.

A row of large metal containers, mantled in shadow, stood against one wall of the alley. Overflowing with discarded clothes and ruined furniture and all sorts of less easily identifiable things that might or might not have been Impriman foodstuffs at one time. In a warmer climate, he thought, the stench would have been unbearable.

But that wasn’t significant right now. What was significant was that those containers looked solid enough to withstand a blaster barrage, at least for a while.

Oh, what the hell, he thought. What’s a poker game without a bluff or two?

As he darted out from cover, the one with the blaster seemed to go berserk. There were beams all around him, carving up the alley walls and the ground beneath his feet and eliciting a scream from the very atoms in the air as they were torn one from the other.

Riker rolled—once, twice—scrambled to his feet and lunged for the nearest container. He miscalculated and came up against it harder than he’d intended, rattling his teeth with the impact. But after a quick inventory, he found that he was still in one piece, unscathed by the blue light beams. Better than that—with all the adrenaline pumping through him, his ankle had stopped smarting.

The blasterman’s weapon fell silent again. Was he waiting for Riker to come out from behind the container? Probably. Was he wondering where his Impriman companion was? Maybe that, too.

Riker couldn’t allow him time to wonder. Leaning out past the container, he peered into the shadows and got off a shot—not that he had any hope of actually hitting anything. To do that, one generally had to see one’s target.

Nothing. No response.

Could it be that the fugitive had already fled?

Riker knew he couldn’t take that for granted, but he couldn’t just sit there, either—so he left the protection of the container, took a couple of steps, and launched himself in the direction of the next one.

This time he didn’t hit the container so hard. He was getting better with practice. Brushing some of the larger clumps of slush from his tunic, he lay on his belly and listened.

Still nothing. But for the sound of Riker’s own breathing, the alley was preternaturally quiet.

Damn. Could I have spooked him so easily?

But he wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions. Maybe something had gone wrong with the blaster. Maybe it needed a new battery—and was getting one right now.

He took a deep draft of the frigid air, expelled it, and scuttled out from behind the second container. The hairs at the nape of his neck prickled with a sudden premonition of disaster; if the blasterman was still there, Riker was getting devilishly close—probably too close for the fugitive to miss.

Spurred by the eerie feeling that he’d bluffed his way into a trap, he wasted no time flinging himself behind the third container.

But the reaction was the same: nonexistent. The impression of imminent peril faded rather quickly.

In fact, he was starting to feel silly. To feel certain that their prey had departed, leaving him here to play hide-and-seek with refuse containers.

Then the real fireworks started.

In the next fraction of a second Riker realized that it had been a trap—just not the kind he’d expected. The force generated by the blaster at this range was enough to topple the massive container and send it crashing down on him, garbage and all. He tried to get out of its way, but it fell too quickly and before he knew it, he was pinned under the container, fighting to keep it from crushing him altogether.

That was the moment in which the fugitive chose to reveal himself. He walked out from the shadows, blaster at the ready, seeming to take