I was on the roof of a low building, the expanse broken only by an elevator block and a couple of small, cylindrical ventilators. I stopped for a moment to get my bearings. Seventeenth Street. That meant my car should be that way. I turned to my right and jogged across the roof. I'd just passed the first of the ventilators when a figure stepped out from behind the elevator block. It was Pud the Prowler, a cold expression on his face and a Beretta 200ST in his fist. Its muzzle was steady, point of aim apparently my upper lip. I turned to ice. The Manhunter was back in my holster. I'd never have managed the ladder without two hands free. And not a chance I could draw it before Pud squeezed the trigger. (The irony in the similarity of my position with little miss ork's wasn't lost on me, I just wasn't in the mood to appreciate it.)