She dove behind a trashcan, (seriously, what the hell was a fifty-year-old man doing with a freaking crossbow, this was worse than inner-city Chicago) and collided with someone else's legs.
The collidee, a cute policeman with a fuzz of red-hair and Dramatic Sunglasses, muttered something detrogatory about civilians.
"Okay, first of all," she said, yanking him down as a crossbow bolt whizzed over their heads and clattered off the wall, "I'm not a civilian. Secondly, you're not doing so hot yourself. Aren't crossbows illegal?"
"You're a civilian here until you get that transfer," he retorted. "Yes, they are. I don't know how he got it, he's usually a shut-in."
Another crossbow bolt clattered off the wall, and she sighed. "You damn kids get off my lawn?"
"Something like that." He peered out around the cans (he would keep calling them bins). "Oi, Mr. Poindexter! Put down the crossbow or I'll bring out the big guns!"
He sounded vaguely ridiculous, and she told him so. "The big guns, Nick? Really?"
Poindexter had apparently found something else to shoot with. Chips of brick sprayed off the wall as he hit it with bullets.
"Looks like your cue," Angel said, heartlessly. "Off you go then."
She gave him a feral smile, and rolled out.