Free Desperate Measures by David R. Morrell

Do you call that standard journalistic procedure? Burt would have a fit if he knew you did that.
    What was I supposed to do, let the old man die?
    As Pittman's stiffening legs did their best to imitate the expert runner's stride that had once been second nature to him, he risked losing time to glance back at his pursuers. Wiping moisture from his eyes, he saw the drizzle-haloed spotlights on the golf carts speeding toward him in the darkness.
    Or some of the carts. All told, there were five, but only . Two were directly behind him. The rest had split off, one to the right, the other to the left, evidently following the perimeter of the golf course.
    The third was speeding on a diagonal toward what Pittman assumed was the far extreme of the course.
    They want to encircle me, Pittman realized. But in the darkness, how can they be sure which way I'm going?
    Rain trickled down his neck beneath his collar. He felt the hairs on his scalp rise when he suddenly understood how his pursuers were able to follow him.
    His London Fog overcoat.
    It was sand-colored. Just as Pittman had been able to see the light color of the sand trap against the darkness of the grass, so his overcoat was as obvious to his pursuers.
    Forced to break stride, running awkwardly, Pittman desperately worked at the belt on his overcoat., untying it, then fumbling at buttons. One button didn't want to be released, and Pittman yanked at it, popping it loose. In a frenzy, he had the coat open. He jerked his arm from one sleeve. He lifted his other arm. His suit coat had been somewhat dry, but now drizzle soaked it.
    Pittman's first impulse was to throw the overcoat away. His next impulse, as he entered a clump of bush, was to drape the coat over a bush to provide a target for the men chasing him. That tactic wouldn't distract them for long, though, he knew, and besides, if ... when ... he escaped, he would need the coat to help keep him warm.
    The brushy area was too small to be a good hiding place, so Pittman fled it, scratching his hands on bushes, and continued charging across the murky golf course.
    Glancing desperately back over his shoulder, he saw the glare of the lights on the carts. He heard the increasingly loud whine of their engines. Rolling his overcoat into a ball and stuffing it under his suit jacket, he strained his legs to their maximum. One thing was in his favor. He was wearing blue suit. In the rainy blackness, he hoped he would disappear with his surroundings.
    Unless the lights pick me up, he thought.
    Ahead, a section of the golf course assumed a different color, a disturbing gray. Approaching it swiftly, Pittman realized that he'd reached a pond. The need to skirt it would force him to lose time. No choice. Breathing hard, he veered to the left. But the wet, slippery grass along the slope betrayed him. His left foot jerked from under him. He fell and almost tumbled into the freezing water before he clawed his fingers into the mushy grass and managed to stop himself.
    Rising frantically, he remembered to keep his overcoat clutched beneath his suit jacket. With an urgent glance backward, he saw a beam of light shoot over the top of the slope down which he'd rolled. The whine of an engine was very close. Concentrating not to lose his balance again, Pittman scurried through the rainy darkness.
    He followed the rim of the pond, struggled up the opposite slope, and lunged over the top just before he heard angry voices behind him. Something buzzed past his right ear. It sounded like a hornet, but Pittman knew what it was: a bullet. Another hornet buzzed past him. No sound of shots. His hunters must have put silencers on their handguns.
    He scurried down a slope, out of their line of fire. To his right, through the rain, he saw lights trying to overtake him. To his left, he saw the same. His legs were so fatigued, they wanted to buckle. His heaving lungs protested. Can't keep this up much longer. He fought to muster energy. Have to keep going.
    Too