The Assassin tc-3

by Stephen Coonts

  I saw them through the front windows of the lobby. They walked up to the entrance, looked in — I was busy trying to find a key on my ring that would fit a mailbox — and gave the keypad that unlocked the exterior door and intercom the once-over. After another glance into the lobby at me, they strolled away to my right, off toward the Metro stop. And the waiting car. And Willie.

  “They’re coming at you,” I said into my mike.

  “Got ‘em. The guy in the Saturn just started his car … Yeah, looks like they’re going to get in with him … Yep… That’s what they did. Car coming your way.”

  An elevator door opened beside me. A man got out and walked toward the exit without bothering to acknowledge me. I ducked into the empty lift, out of sight of cars passing on the street.

  “They’re gone,” Willie said.

  “They’ll be back. Midnight or later.”

  “I figure you’re right,” Willie said pleasantly. “They’re just workin’ up to something mean.”

  So how would they do it? They looked at the entrances, decided the police weren’t waiting … Where should Robin and I be?

  The elevator started beeping at me, so I punched the button for the eighth floor.

  I went upstairs to brief the Graftons and my partner in crime, Robin Cloyd. I explained that an inspection of the premises before committing a crime aged quickly. The people who had looked this building over would be back fairly soon, or not at all. We needed to be ready. Callie nodded. Amy looked brave.. and pensive.

  Robin removed her pistol from her purse and checked it as I talked. When I fell silent she asked, “Are they suiciders?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I handed her a headset. “Hopefully Willie will see them and give us a minute or so warning. I want you to stay in the corridor outside. I’m going to be downstairs. I’ll disable the elevators. The only way up will be the stairwell. If you hear shots, you’ll know they’re bad guys. I’m going to wedge the stairwell door shut, so they’ll have to blow it or do some serious pounding to get it open. Be lying here by the Graftons’ door. If anyone comes out of the stairwell, use the shotgun on them. We want them dead or incapacitated quickly, just in case they’re bombers.”

  “Okay.”

  I looked at Mrs. Grafton. “If you hear shots, call the police on the landline.”

  She nodded.

  I looked at Amy. “If the phone goes out, be ready to call the police on your cell phone.”

  She bobbed her head once, vigorously.

  I looked straight into Amy’s eyes and said, “You could leave right now, you know. There really isn’t any reason for you to stay. This is Robin’s and my job. This is what we do — you teach elementary school.”

  “What about the other people in the building?” Amy asked.

  “We can’t knock on doors and ask them to leave. The object is to catch or kill terrorists. If the building is dark and empty, they won’t come.”

  “I’ll stay,” Amy said.

  Callie put her arm around her. They were Graftons, all right.

  I told Robin, “Give Callie your pistol. You’ll have the shotgun and extra shells. Keep shooting until they don’t even twitch.”

  “Okay.” Matter-of-fact. No sweat.

  Say what you will about her hair and ditzy manner, Robin was kind of a class act. I was finding I liked her.

  “This terrorist, Abu Qasim — tell me about him,” Huntington Winchester said to Jake Grafton. They were seated at the bar in the main room, and they were alone. Winchester was nursing a glass of old Scotch, and Grafton was working on a beer.

  “Not much to tell,” Jake said. “Most of what we know is hearsay, picked up on the streets in dribs and drabs.”

  “Maybe he’s a myth.”

  “He’s real, all right. Real as a heart attack.” Grafton sipped at his beer. “The world is a far different place than it was on Labor Day 2001. Security is a lot tighter, more assets are devoted to it, everyone in law enforcement and intelligence takes it seriously, so it’s not as easy to be a terrorist these days as it was then. Sure, screwball amateurs can always pull off a spectacular atrocity, murder some innocent people and die doing it. But there are only a few terrorists competent and capable enough, with the necessary network, to really do something that would hurt Western civilization. Abu Qasim is one of them. He’s a damned dangerous man.”

  “There aren’t many men, good or bad, who can make a difference,” Winchester mused.

  “That’s not really true,” Grafton said. “I was just getting started in the Navy when I learned that every single person who makes a stand makes a difference. How you live, what you believe, what you do — it all matters. Results are important, too, but the critical factor, the most important thing, is making a stand, which is why we have to fight the Abu Qasims.”

  “You see, when I weigh my life,” Winchester said, “and my son Owen’s, his was the more important. I’ve built a company, made a lot of money, but if I hadn’t made oil field equipment someone else would have. Owen, on the other hand, set forth to save lives. He gave all he had doing it.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jake Grafton said. “You raised a fine son, which is more than many of us manage. And you took a stand when you signed on to this goat rope. With a little luck, your stand will pay off.”

  “Umm.” Winchester sipped at his drink. “How will you know which one of these guys you think is coming is Qasim?”

  “I’ll know.”

  “How?”

  “Marisa will tell me.”

  “How will she know?”

  Jake’s cell phone, which was lying on the bar, rang. He glanced at the number. “Ask her,” he said to Winchester, then answered the phone.

  “Hello, Tommy.”

  When I had finished briefing Grafton, he said, “I want the guy in the Saturn, too. Alive, if possible. In fact, get him first.”

  I took a deep breath. “There are no parking places on the street, as you well know. He’ll probably pull up and the bad guys will pile out. If they’re suiciders, he’ll just drive away, leaving them.”

  “I understand,” Grafton murmured.

  “I can’t just shoot him right then. These may not be bad guys. And if they are and I gun him, I’m going to be in a shoot-out with three or four armed men right on the street. I can’t get ‘em all before they get me.”

  “Use your best judgment.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “After you pop him, or when he drives away, have Willie call 911.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call me when it’s over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We hung up then, and fifteen seconds later, I heard Callie’s cell phone in the kitchen ring. It was undoubtedly her husband.

  I tested my radio with Willie and Robin, then grabbed four wedges and my hammer and headed for the stairwell. Robin went out into the hallway, and Amy bolted the door behind her.

  In the stairwell I hammered home four wedges under the door to the eighth floor, then two in the gap between the top of the door and the upper jamb. There wasn’t room in the little vertical gap for a wedge. I figured they would blow the lock with some kind of explosive, unless they were willing to take the time to break the lock, pick it or remove the door from its hinges. Even if they blew the lock off with a charge of plastique, the door wasn’t going to open with the wedges jamming it. I hoped. When and if they did get through, Robin was going to be in the hall with the 12-gauge. Meanwhile I was going to be coming up the stairs behind them.

  I climbed a flight of stairs and left the hammer there.

  I had thought about wedging every door in the stairwell shut, but the risk was too great. If these guys were bombers and a fire started, everyone in the building would be trapped.

  I was trotting down the stairs with my shotgun in hand when the fourth-floor door opened and an elderly gentleman poked an old revolver at me. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  “Uh, T
ommy Carmellini, sir. I’m staying with Jake Grafton on the eighth floor. You probably know him — a retired admiral? And who are you?”

  He was suspicious, but I looked clean-cut and wholesome. “Fred Colucci. I heard someone pounding and came to see. Don’t want no trouble. What you got that gun for?”

  “I heard the pounding and came to investigate. Would you please stop pointing that pistol at me?”

  He lowered the revolver. Slowly, waiting for me to do something dumb.

  “Thanks,” I said and trotted on down the stairs.

  “Four-B,” Colucci called. “Stop by and tell me what’that pounding was. I’m gonna call the Homeowners. Too much damn noise in this building.”

  “Okay,” I called, and kept going.

  I paused at the bottom of the stairwell and stuck the shotgun under my coat. Got my pistol out and put it in my right trouser pocket where I could get at it easily. The spare magazine was already in my left trouser pocket.

  I stepped out onto the ground level, the basement. The elevator control box was mounted right there on the wall beside the garbage cans. It was locked, but I managed to open it with a pick in approximately thirty seconds. The elevator power switches were big and obvious.

  “Hey, Willie, can you hear me?”

  He answered in about four seconds. “Yeah.”

  “I need to know the instant you see them.”

  “They’ll probably drive by a few times, man, before they pull the trigger. No parking places out here.”

  “Keep me advised.”

  “Okay.”

  “Robin?”

  “Yes, Tommy.”

  “They blow that door to get onto your floor, have your mouth open and ears covered.”

  “I’ll manage, Carmellini. You handle your end.”

  Willie chuckled into his mike.

  The super had a little folding chair at his desk. I put the shotgun on the desk and parked my heinie in his chair. I waited.

  “I’m leaving, Grafton,” Simon Cairnes said to the admiral. “I’ve called for my car.”

  “Okay.”

  Cairnes was standing by the bar, leaning ever so slightly on his cane. He looked a little startled at Jake’s answer. “What?” he said. “No comment about it’s my funeral?”

  Jake shrugged. “I’ll send flowers. See you on the other side.”

  “You nervy son of a bitch,” Cairnes growled and turned to go. He shot a glance at Winchester, who was descending the stairs. “Don’t ever call me again, Hunt. Not for any reason under the sun.”

  Then he was gone along the hallway toward the front door.

  Winchester came the rest of the way down the stairs and parked himself on a bar stool beside Grafton.

  “She’s Qasim’s daughter.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Damnation, Grafton! He’ll come here to get her.”

  “No,” Jake said with a sigh. “If he comes, he’ll be coming to get you.”

  “And you, I figure.”

  “More than likely,” Grafton muttered and keyed the radio on his belt. “Car will be coming to pick up Cairnes.”

  He received two mike clicks in reply.

  It was a quarter past eleven in the evening when Willie’s voice sounded in my ear. “It’s the Saturn. He’s slowin’, drivin’ by, four in the car maybe.. maybe five. On past and down the hill toward the subway stop.”

  “Got it,” I said. I grabbed the shotgun and strode for the elevator power box. Fortunately neither elevator was moving just then, so no one was going to be trapped between floors when I killed the power. One was on the lobby level, the other on nine. I hit the switches to turn off the power, closed the door to the box, then turned off the basement lights and ran up the stairs to the lobby.

  “Here they come again, comin’ slowly.” Willie was excited. For that matter, so was I.

  I shot out the main door and threw myself on my back behind a bush, holding the shotgun in front of me.

  This position was terrible, and I was a fool to be here — but Grafton wanted the wheelman, and I had to be outside to get him.

  “Still rollin’… rollin’… goin’ on by.”

  I was so keyed up that I almost collapsed when he said that. I lay there frozen, looking up at the side of the building, the little balconies sticking out, the lit windows… Just then I had the oddest thought, wondered what someone up there would do if he or she saw me lying here.

  “He’s acceleratin’, goin’ on up the street. Be right back, I figure. And Tommy, there’s five heads in there.”

  “Got it.”

  “Robin copies.”

  I got up, took off my coat and wrapped it around the shotgun, then crossed the street. There was an office building entrance there right off the sidewalk, two steps up to the door. The sign out front said the thing was full of doctors’ offices. They were all gone for the night — not a light showed.

  I sat on the steps and leaned sideways, as if I were about to pass out, with the shotgun on my lap.

  The waiting was getting more and more difficult. I kept watching the street toward the subway stop to my left. They would come from that direction, I suspected; just turn around and come straight back. On the other hand, maybe they would go around the block. I forced myself to look in the other direction, too.

  No pedestrians this time of night. The good folks were all home in bed.

  When I looked at my watch I was surprised to find that only three minutes had passed.

  Here came a set of headlights, up from the subway stop. The driver was moving right along.

  “It’s them,” Willie said.

  The driver turned into the alley that ran behind Grafton’s building, and four men piled out. They ran off down the alley. The car’s backup lights illuminated. They were suiciders. Oh, Lord!

  I tore the coat off the gun, sprinted toward the car. The driver never saw me coming. He backed into the street and stopped. As he shifted gears I jerked open the passenger door and dove into the car. He put it in motion. I reached for the keys, turned off the ignition. Couldn’t get the keys out one-handed, so I didn’t try.

  He decided I was his biggest problem, so he hit me. Hit me with surprising force, considering that he was seated and belted in. He was scared, pumped with adrenaline. So was I.

  I got my knees under me and elbowed him in the face as hard as I could. He was still struggling, so I did it again and again and again. Until he went limp.

  I patted him down as fast as I could. No weapon. I jammed the transmission into park and removed the keys from the ignition. Took the keys with me.

  Ran into the building and listened at the stairwell door. Maybe a minute had passed since the four guys ran down the alley.

  “You want me to call the cops, Tommy?” That was Willie.

  “Not yet. First shot.”

  I figured they would just use a pipe wrench on that personnel door, so was surprised when I heard a muffled thud. The idiots had blown the knob.

  If they had any sense they would ignore the elevators. If they didn’t, they would try the elevators first, and when they didn’t work, come up the stairs. Either way, they were using the stairs.

  I waited, my ear against the door.

  And heard their feet pounding on the steel stairs.

  I waited, tense as a spring.

  With his cell phone in his hand and his coat collar pulled up around his ears, Willie Varner was seated on a stoop beside a leafless bush about a hundred feet north of the Saturn, which sat nosed into the curb, blocking half of one lane of traffic. Not that there was much traffic. Just one car passed after Tommy ran into Grafton’s building.

  Willie looked around carefully. If there were any more terrorists around, his job was to tell Tommy about it. He didn’t see anyone.

  Now the guy behind the wheel of the Saturn stirred. Willie saw his head move. Then the driver’s door opened and he tried to get out. Ended up falling. Picked himself up slowly and leaned against the car with his head
against his arm.

  Willie adjusted his baseball cap and scanned up and down the street.

  I heard them running in the stairwell, their feet pounding on the steel steps. They came up from the basement and charged by the lobby door and kept going up.

  When the last one seemed to be above me, I eased the door open. They disappeared around the upper landing and kept climbing.

  I started up two stairs at a time, as close to the outside wall as I could get, the shotgun ready and the safety off. The rumble of their feet filled the stairwell.

  As we passed the third-floor door, I had closed the gap. I saw legs between the steps on the flight above me. I used the shotgun. One shot. Two. The reports were like cannon shots in that concrete box.

  Two men fell, screaming. I kept climbing. One was down, lying on the stairs, so I gunned him. He took the ounce and a quarter of buck in the back. I kept going, worked the slide, and let the second one have it in the gut. Blood erupted; he crumpled and lay still.

  A bullet spanged off the steel beside me.

  I paused to shove more shells into the magazine.

  Another shot, this time from higher up. He was still climbing, shooting to discourage me.

  I stepped over the corpses and kept climbing, looking up for feet to shoot at.

  The guy stopped climbing, fired off four shots. He aimed them at the walls so the bullets ricocheted. One of them kissed me on the top of the shoulder. The damn thing burned and I almost dropped the shotgun. Held on to it and aimed for the wall, gave him a load of buckshot, just to see if I could bounce some his way.

  He fired again, so I adjusted my aim and gave him another ounce and a quarter of lead.

  Someone was screaming in my ears. “… are coming!”

  I kept going, got a glimpse of a foot and shot at it. Hit it, too. A shout, and a groan. He emptied his pistol into the wall, trying to hit me with a ricochet.

  While all this was going on, I shoved the last of my shells into the Remington. I had lost count of how many were in there, and my pocket was empty.

  This guy must have fired seven or eight shots into the walls. I figured he had one of those thirteen-shot magazines. When the shooting stopped, I heard him sob, so I ran upward. He was lying on the landing against the concrete wall, the stump of his foot covered with blood, blood on his face, trying to get another magazine into his pistol.