she called. Rook instinctively whipped his head from side to side, scanning the park for a shooter. Backhouse, still mesmerized, held his gaze on the drone. Heat broke his geeky trance with a hard shove and a leg sweep to the back of his knees. He howled in alarm as he went down. His yell was punctuated by the sharp crack of a .22 round fired from the quadcopter and the unmistakable sound of a bullet ricocheting off the wrought iron fence behind them. They landed in a tangle. Surprised and disoriented, Backhouse began to curse and push Heat off him; meanwhile, she was trying to reach her gun, but his flailing arms were in her way. Rook, still on his feet, tried to make sense of the scene. Heat hollered, “The drone! It’s armed. It’s shooting.” Nikki gave Backhouse a push and rolled clear of him, coming up with her Sig Sauer braced, but the drone had pulled back and twenty yards to one side. Her shot would have been in line with the crowd of protesters. A miss, or even a hit that ended up as a through-and-through, could easily strike a bystander.
