Nine minutes. Plenty of time to ask him and get back here.
Raoul slipped into the crowd, moving toward the next block, where Bowie would be waiting for ten o'clock to occur. There. Ahead. Raoul saw the lanky man, slightly taller than those around him, flowing with the crowd.
Bowie shifted toward a wall. Exactly where he's supposed to be, Raoul thought, working toward him. But then Raoul frowned, seeing Bowie take off his knapsack. Raoul frowned harder when Bowie shoved the knapsack into a garbage bin. Bowie rejoined the crowd.
Stunned, Raoul came to the garbage bin and gaped at the knapsack Bowie had abandoned. He raised his eyes, searching the crowd. Bowie was glaring back at him.
The force of it made him dizzy. The fury in Bowie's eyes was so overwhelming that Raoul felt shoved. He actually took a step backward, his dizziness intensifying. The world he thought he knew spun. The reality he depended on seemed to ripple beneath his feet, making him unsteady.
At once, another world took its place. A mask seemed to slip from Bowie's face. The man Raoul thought of as a father suddenly became a stranger. Worse than that: an enemy. The rage and hatred on Bowie's face shot across the distance and made Raoul lurch back another step.
Immediately, Bowie pushed through the crowd, hurrying toward him. A terrible heat primed Raoul's muscles. The most searing fear he'd ever known fired his protective instincts and sent him fleeing.
26
No! Carl thought. Shoving protestors out of the way, he charged toward Raoul. The look on his face! He suspects! If he warns the others . . .
The constant stream of demonstrators held him back. Turning sideways, ramming his shoulder through the crowd, he was reminded of playing in high-school football games, his father yelling drunkenly from the bleachers.
“Hey!” a man said. “Watch where you're going!”
“Out of my way!”
“Don't ram into me, jerk-off!”
The man gasped, struck in the stomach, baffled by the blood streaming from him.
His knife at his side, Carl shoved harder through the oncoming crowd. Ahead, Raoul stayed close to the wall, gaining distance, managing to reach the next block.
A young man with a knapsack saw them coming.
Raoul shouted a warning.
The team member looked confused.
Raoul shouted again.
The team member saw Carl chasing Raoul. Fear tightening his face, he turned and ran.
27
“What's this about?”
In the communications truck, an FBI agent pointed toward a monitor.
“Where?”
“Here. This.”
Cavanaugh and Jamie walked toward it.
“Somebody's in an awful hurry to go the wrong way,” the agent said.
“Not one person. Three,” Jamie noted.
The camera was angled downward from a roof. The screen showed the crowd filling the street, countless protestors shifting away from the conference center. Breaking the pattern, a line of three men charged in the opposite direction, thrusting their way through the demonstrators.
“Seems like the guy in back's chasing the others,” the agent said. “Look at how frightened they are. They keep glancing back to see if he's gaining on them.”
“And what about this?” Another agent pointed toward a monitor that showed a commotion nearby. People formed a circle around a man scrunched sideways on the pavement. He held his stomach, which was dark with spreading liquid. A woman raised her face and soundlessly screamed.
“Looks like he's been shot,” an agent said.
Cavanaugh concentrated on the three men forcing their way south as everyone else went north. “Can you get a closer view of the guy in back, the one who seems to be chasing the others?”
“Sure.”
The agent twisted dials. Immediately the camera magnified the man at the rear of the line.
As the face got larger, Cavanaugh felt a chill speed along his nerves. “Not shot. Stabbed.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the guy chasing the others is Carl.”
28
Eight minutes before ten.
Fighting his way through the crowd, Carl saw another young man with a knapsack. Raoul shouted a warning. When the man, already on edge, looked behind the team members charging toward him and saw the rage on Carl's face, he too broke into a run. Carl shouldered through more protestors.
“Hey, dickhead, watch who you're slamming into,” a man said, only to groan and double over as Carl lunged past.
Ahead, Raoul hurried straight ahead while the team members he'd warned dropped their knapsacks and split to the right and left, racing down side streets.
They'll alert the rest of the team, Carl thought in a fury. I trained them to feel they belong to a tightly knit unit. That's how they'll act now, protecting each other.
Because of Raoul. All the effort I spent on him, he's still a punk.
Ramming through the crowd, getting nearer, Carl angrily calculated that he had sufficient time to teach him the consequence of disloyalty.
Ahead, the son of a bitch hurled his knapsack away and shouted to a team member waiting farther along the block.
29
“What are they throwing away? Knapsacks?”
“They seem to be shouting at people at the side of the crowd.” Cavanaugh stared at the monitors.
“Men standing against walls,” Jamie said. “They all have knapsacks. Here, here, here, and . . . My God, once you notice them, they seem to be everywhere.”
“I hate to imagine what's in them.” An agent picked up a microphone. “Surveillance One to all units.”
As the agent described what he saw on the screens, Cavanaugh pointed toward the one that showed Carl. “What street is he on?” he asked another agent.
“Girod near Fulton.”
Cavanaugh grabbed a lapel microphone and an earbud. “Keep telling me which direction he's taking.”
Before Jamie had a chance to think about going with him, Cavanaugh opened the door and jumped to the street.
“Grab the guys with the knapsacks!” the agent said into a microphone. “For God's sake, be careful. We don't know what's in them.”
When Jamie jumped to the street, Cavanaugh had disappeared into the crowd.
30
Seven minutes before ten.
Without looking back, Raoul had a visceral sense that Bowie was gaining on him. His stomach felt on fire. His lungs ached. His legs felt wobbly. Although he stayed along a wall, there were still too many people in front of him. Crashing, shoving, he shouted to another team member, “Bowie lied! Something's wrong! Get rid of the knapsack!”
The already-nervous team member seemed to be grateful for the excuse to run. Raoul leapt over the dropped knapsack and veered left onto Fulton Street. The side street had fewer departing protestors, giving Raoul a chance to run faster.
But he continued to have that visceral sense that Bowie was gaining on him. He saw yet another team member and shouted his warning. For proof, all the man needed was a frightened look behind Raoul toward where Bowie was getting closer. The man dropped his knapsack and raced toward the next corner.
Perhaps Raoul only imagined the footsteps pounding behind him. But he didn't imagine the increasing tightness in his lungs, the worsening unsteadiness in his legs. Never having been tested, never having passed five missions, he was ruled by fear instead of using adrenaline to give him strength. Gotta breathe. As long as I'm running, he has the advantage. Gotta stop. On the opposite side of the street, an archway beckoned. Gotta fight.
Raoul crashed past retreating demonstrators, knocking a man to the pavement. “Damn it!” he heard behind him, but all he cared about was reaching the protection of that archway. He charged inside, but there wasn't a door that he could slam and lock. A musty brick corridor led to metal stairs angling up. Shadows beckoned as he raced to the stairs. He heard footsteps rushing behind him. Drawing his pistol, he spun and saw a blur as B
owie shouted, “Want to make a bet?”
The shout boomed off the bricks. Along with the fright of Bowie's swiftly enlarging figure, the noise was loud enough to startle Raoul. His knees bent. His shoulders hunched. His hands rose to shield his chest. He fumbled to squeeze the trigger, but at once, he felt Bowie walloping into him, jolting the remaining air from his lungs. He landed hard on the stairs, their sharp edges chopping his back as Bowie continued hurtling into him, punching him repeatedly, except that the punches were stabs and now it was blood instead of air that escaped from Raoul's lungs.
31
“You dummy, didn't you learn anything? Don't bring a gun to a knife fight!” Carl drove the blade deep into Raoul's chest, his stomach, his throat, again and again, each thrust sending a shudder through the body. Gas escaped. Blood flew. He kept pounding until the torn mass beneath him was barely recognizable. With each frenzied blow, he felt as if he were out of himself, smiling down at the punishment he inflicted. Courage. Honor. Sacrifice. But the greatest military virtue is loyalty. This is what you get for—
Carl was suddenly in his body again, conscious of the gore beneath him, the blood dripping from his hands, his shirt, his face. A tremor went through him, a spasm of release that raised his head and arched his back. His vision turned gray. Then everything was vivid before him, Raoul's death-contorted body, the black metal stairs now sprayed with red, the crimson-covered knife in his hand.
How long have I been . . . My God, what time is it? His watch was so covered with blood that he had to wipe it on the back of his shirt before he could see its display. Four minutes to ten. The last thing he remembered was charging into the passageway at six minutes to ten. Several quick slashes with his knife. That was his plan. Thirty seconds to teach Raoul his lesson. In and out. Five minutes to get away. Not all the team members would be warned that something was wrong. Some would pull the cords on their knapsacks and activate the detonators, releasing the gas. Not enough to save the mission, although the target area was still dangerous. He needed to run.
Looking like this? Straightening, he felt the wet heaviness of the blood on his shirt. Every security agent in the crowd will converge on me. Damn you, Raoul. He kicked the body, cursing Raoul for making him lose control.
Think! There's got to be a way to—
He tore off his shirt. In muggy New Orleans, a man without a shirt attracted little attention, but someone with a blood-soaked shirt was another matter. He hurried to a faucet next to the stairs, rinsing the blood from his hands and face. He almost ran back along the alley toward the street, but a commotion out there told him that somebody was charging in this direction.
Trying a door on his right, he found it locked. He tried a door on his left, with the same result. Terribly aware of time passing, he charged up the stairs, all the while folding his knife and shoving it with his pistol into one of the baggy pockets of his pants. His shoes clattering on the stairs, he reached the top and turned the knob, groaning when he found that this door, too, was locked.
Past a closed window next to it, he heard two women talking. When he pounded on the door, their voices stopped.
“Let me in! It's an emergency!”
Below him, footsteps sounded in the passageway. He stared down, feeling his heart skip.
32
“The middle of the block! The south side!”
Listening to the voice give instructions through his earbud, Cavanaugh veered through the crowd on Fulton Street. Reaching an archway, he heard the voice say, “That's where they went! Backup's on the way!”
“No time!”
Staying to the side, he drew his pistol and listened. With the noise of the departing protestors behind him, he thought he heard the echo of footsteps on a metal staircase.
Working to control his heartbeat, he took a breath, held it, counted one, two, three, exhaled through his mouth, one, two, three, and inhaled through his nose, one, two, three. Pivoting into view, he aimed along a brick passageway and saw the lower half of a man climbing the stairs. A blood-covered body lay at the bottom. A blood-soaked shirt was near a faucet.
Continuing to aim, Cavanaugh eased along the passageway, shifting his feet carefully, taking care to place them firmly and maintain his balance. Nearing the stairs, he heard pounding on a door above him. Ignoring the corpse at his feet, he aimed upward.
Carl.
Slowly, Carl's surprised look changed to a welcoming smile. “My, my.” The smile widened. “How are you doing, Aaron?”
“I've been better.” Cavanaugh tightened his finger on the trigger.
“Yeah, I'm not having a great day, either.” Carl's lanky chest was bare, his ribs showing through his lean muscles. His narrow face dripped water. He held up his wet, powerful-looking arms in surrender. “It's been too long, Aaron. You must be taking a lot of vitamins. Either that, or marriage agrees with you. You don't look any older.”
“For certain, you haven't changed. I see you're still having control problems.”
“Well, he turned against me. I know disloyalty doesn't bother you, but it makes me furious.”
“Apparently, a lot of things do.”
“Only people who trick me into believing they're my friends when they're actually the opposite.”
“Come down the stairs, Carl.”
“I don't think so.”
“Slowly. Carefully.”
“What happens if I tell you to screw off? You'll shoot me?”
“Yes.”
At the top of the stairs, voices behind a door made Cavanaugh frown.
“Not today, good buddy.”
The door opened. Before Cavanaugh could fire, Carl vanished into the building.
Cavanaugh raced up the stairs, but not before the door slammed shut. He yanked at the knob. Locked. He pounded on the door. Beyond it, he heard shots. The door was metal. Carl knew that pistol bullets wouldn't go through it. That meant the bullets were intended for someone else: whoever had opened the door. Cavanaugh thought he heard footsteps running along a corridor.
“He's in a building on the second floor!” Cavanaugh said into his lapel mike.
“We'll seal off Fulton and the opposite street!” the voice promised.
Loud noises made Cavanaugh spin and look down the stairs. A half dozen agents rushed along the passageway. The person he focused on was Jamie.
“He went through here!” Cavanaugh yelled to them. Seeing flowerpots at the top of the stairs, Cavanaugh grabbed one and hurled it through the window next to the door. Convinced that Carl wouldn't have risked staying, he reached through, freed a lock, and raised the window. Air conditioning cooled his hand.
As Jamie and the agents ran up the stairs, Cavanaugh peered through the window, studied an office, decided that he had to take the chance, and crawled inside. Two women lay on the floor, streaming blood.
“We need an ambulance!” Cavanaugh shouted into his lapel mike. Rushing, he unlocked the door.
Jamie and the agents hurried in but stopped at the sight of the gunshot victims. One agent knelt, trying to help them while Cavanaugh and the others raced along a corridor.
In an office, a man peered up, hiding behind a desk. In another office, a man lay bleeding.
Reaching a lobby, Cavanaugh saw a receptionist trembling in a corner behind her desk. Glass doors led to an elevator and stairs.
“We've got operators waiting on the street outside! He can't get through!” an agent told him. Gun drawn, the agent ran past Cavanaugh and charged down the stairs, the others following.
But Cavanaugh and Jamie lingered.
“What's above us?” Cavanaugh asked the trembling receptionist.
She opened her mouth. No sound came out.
“You're safe now,” Jamie said. “What's above us?”
“Other offices.”
“And?”
“A roof garden.”
33
Three minutes to ten.
A team member stood against a wall as the crowd passed. Impatie
nt, he checked his watch, looked up, and paled when two men confronted him, aiming pistols.
“Hands up!”
*
“Turn around! Against the wall!” an agent shouted to another team member, this one a block away. “Jay, get the knapsack off him!”
*
“I think it's safe to take the knapsack!” an agent yelled to his partner three blocks away. “If it's a bomb, it doesn't have a manual trigger. Otherwise, he'd have blown himself up by now.”
Someone in the crowd overheard. “Bomb?”
“Where?”
“A bomb!”
“Run!”
*
“Keep your hands away from the knapsack!” an agent shouted.
When the team member drew a pistol, the agent protected the knapsack and shot the man in the head.
The dying man fired into the sidewalk, fragments hitting the crowd.
Panicking, a woman tripped. Stampeding, three men fell over her. Screams filled the street.
34
Cavanaugh and Jamie hurried up the stairs. An office door was open, startled faces peering out.
“Close the door,” Cavanaugh told them.
“Take cover,” Jamie warned.
Continuing higher, they reached an open door, sky beyond it.
“Stay here,” Cavanaugh said. “You don't need to do this.”
“Babe, I'm not letting you do it alone.”
Cavanaugh went first, aiming to the right while Jamie aimed to the left. Amid blazing sunlight, potted trees and shrubs surrounded them. Patio tables, chairs, and sun umbrellas provided a lunch area through which Cavanaugh and Jamie darted, searching for a target.
The Naked Edge Page 32