Nightwalker was slumped in the bucket seat beside him. He looks like death. Falcon thought, catching occasional glimpses of his friend in the illumination of the few streetlights that still worked. Eyes open but not really seeing anything, breathing shallow and fast. The Amerindian’s broad forehead glistened with a sheen of sweat. When Falcon touched his chummer’s hand, the flesh felt cool. Not yet the chill of death, but too close.