Free Desperate Measures by David R. Morrell Page B

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 freed 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 brush, 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 a dark blue suit. In the rainy blackness, he hoped he would blend 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 late, he saw the light-colored patch ahead of him. The grass dropped sharply. Unable to stop, he hurtled out into space,
     flailed, and jolted down into another sand trap. The impact dropped him to his knees. He struggled upright, feeling the heaviness
     of wet sand clinging to his trousers.
    Spotlights bobbed, speeding nearer. With a final burst of energy, he struggled across the sand trap. His shoes sank into the
     drizzle-softened sand. He left a deep, wide trail. Jesus, even if they don’t have my overcoat as a target, they’ll know from
     my tracks which way I went when I reached the grass, he thought.
    Tracks. Pittman’s skin prickled as he realized that this might be his only chance to save himself. The instant he raced out
     of the sand onto the grass, he reversed his direction and hurried through the darkness along the edge of the sand trap toward
     the top of the slope from which he had leapt. As he ran through the drizzle, he yanked his balled overcoat