Undertow

by Warren Adler

  The old enemy was a crafty cat, he thought. No, he couldn’t go back to the Chronicle. That play was over now. He knew his head had cleared, the emotion subdued, the judgments clear. A standing target couldn’t just stand there, after all, and take the shot. Sooner or later they’d gun him down.

  He had to think clearly, go over his options carefully, just as they did. Surely, there were others like him. He was a fool to think he was alone. And they could use a good man, someone who knew how the enemy did it. He’d find them. And somehow he would get that story published. For the one thing that DBJ and his crowd might never suspect was that somewhere out there was a human time bomb ticking away—ticking.

  He walked out of the coffee shop and flipped the paper into a trash can.