Gone haywire, shooting sparks

Evan crained his neck to see out the street without disturbing the blinds. With its arrival night had sent the garment workers home, and it settled on the Warehouse District like a dominant dog. Evan wore a dark suit with a vest and watch chain. He also had a shoulder houlster and a gun. Out the window the streetlights cast a candlelit glow but the swathes of shadow had control.

"We know you're out there, Evan," a voice called. A girl stumbled into one of the faint spotlights as if she'd been pushed. Her hair spilled like a churning ocean over a light-colored rain slicker.

Evan couldn't pick out any targets, but he was sure guns were scanning for him. Maybe he could get close and induce her to run to him. But he couldn't be sure they wouldn't just kill her.

He threw up the window and began to sing a popular song, one that everyone always liked. No shots came. When nothing happened, Jess, which was the girl's name, walked into the short 50s office building Evan was in and closed the door behind her. No one else tried to come in.