Saint

by Ted Dekker

  This was only one set of choices. There were others, any of which would affect the desired end result. Which was what?

  Which was to destroy Johnny. Not simply kill him, mind you. Destroy him.

  Englishman had been sent to the X Group for the explicit purpose of bringing Johnny to his knees and then, when he was ruined beyond recognition, when he was a shell of the man he once was, destroying him. In the end, Johnny would die in humiliation, but only after he’d been brought to a place where he could appreciate the true horror of his own demise.

  Only after he learned to hate.

  Then and only then would Johnny’s undoing satisfy their collective hate for Samuel and the others who managed to survive Project Showdown. Samuel may have once survived that creep Black’s assault, thereby rendering himself untouchable, but his heart wouldn’t survive Johnny’s demise, not after what they’d been through twelve years earlier.

  The turn of events at the cabin hadn’t been planned, but even that played to Englishman’s favor. Johnny was learning to hate in a way that he’d never hated, and that was the point. He would eventually hate himself. And then the end would come.

  If Englishman could use his trump card now, Johnny’s hand would be forced. But he couldn’t, not yet.

  “Pull over,” Englishman said.

  The cabby grunted something in another language and pulled to the curb. Englishman had made his choice and was happy with it. Reaching under his coat, he quickly affixed a silencer to the barrel of his pistol.

  Kelly watched him. “What are you doing?”

  The moment the cab came to a stop, he climbed out, hurried around to the driver’s window, and shot the man through the temple. But he stopped the bullet in the man’s brain so that it wouldn’t make a mess.

  The man slumped over so that his head lay across the bench seat. Englishman stuck his head through the window and winked at Kelly. “Get up front, please.”

  She didn’t obey at first, and he thought about changing his choice. If she became a problem, he’d find another way.

  She evidently had figured as much and now came to her senses. “He’s up there,” she said.

  “There’s room for three.”

  Englishman climbed in, shoving the man out of the way. Kelly opened the front door, studied the dead body. A man dressed in a blue business suit approached the car, apparently dumbstruck. Englishman shot the man in the chest. This time he didn’t bother stopping the bullet. A little distraction here, a block from the UN, might come in handy.

  He jerked the driver upright to give Kelly more room. “Please, hurry.”

  Kelly obliged.

  There was yelling on the curb when he pulled back into traffic, but nothing was so shocking in this city to generate immediate and forceful action. Another of Englishman’s favorite movies was The Terminator. At the moment he felt a little like Arnold Schwarzenegger must have felt pretending to be a ruthless, emotionless killer from the future.

  Unlike the Terminator, Englishman was real. And Englishman had emotions, and right now he was both happy and excited.

  The UN Building loomed ahead on his right.

  “You’ll never get away with being so careless,” Kelly said. Her tone reminded him of her cocky superiority back in Hungary. “They’ll come down on us like the plague.”

  “I would think that would please you.” A long line of black limousines waited patiently for their respective dignitaries. They’d arrived in time, then. Good.

  “We are all implicated in this,” she said, pushing the dead driver’s head off her shoulder. The man slumped forward and struck the dash with his face. It was a good position.

  Everything was working out. Good car, good timing, good hostage, good dead driver.

  “Maybe we should work together,” she said. “Last I remember, we were on the same team. If you insist on killing me later, fine, but don’t get us all killed before our time.”

  “You don’t have the slightest clue what you’re talking about. Please be quiet.”

  Englishman scanned the street, much in the same way he remembered Arnold scanning the street in The Terminator. If she knew the full extent of his power, she wouldn’t question his choices. She certainly wouldn’t be trying this pathetic attempt to gain his confidence. Surely she realized that he knew how much she cared for Johnny. Love had been in her every glance in Hungary, and it lit her eyes even now.

  Kelly was madly in love with Johnny. End of story. End of story soon enough anyway.

  “I may not be—”

  The dead driver’s hand flew up and backhanded her across the face with a loud smack.

  Then Englishman did it again, this time as she watched fully aware of what was happening. The dead man’s arm lifted, stopped six inches from her cheek, and then patted her face gently.

  “Please be quiet,” Englishman said and let the arm drop.

  She obeyed him.

  The mission was going well. Very well.

  And then suddenly the mission wasn’t going so well, because suddenly the doors to the UN Building flew open and dignitaries began to pour out and Englishman hadn’t yet spotted Johnny.

  He searched the streets quickly. Dozens of cars of all colors, mostly black limousines and yellow cabs—Johnny could be in any one of them. Pedestrians of all stripes—Johnny could be masquerading as a businessman or a dignitary or a security guard for that matter. His time had been limited, but a killer as resourceful as Johnny could have adopted any one of dozens of personas.

  Kelly was searching as well, and Englishman kept her in his peripheral vision, watching for her recognition. Love was a strange and horrible beast, binding in mysterious ways.

  Englishman slowed the car, ignoring horns behind him. Another cab drove by on his right and cut in front of him, horn blaring. Englishman wreaked havoc on the other car’s engine with a burst of frustration. He couldn’t isolate the specific damage without being able to directly determine the engine’s layout through line of sight or sound, but he could send disruption to the general vicinity.

  The car’s front grille began to boil white smoke. Radiator. Englishman pulled around the car, through the clouds of steam.

  A dozen cookie-cutter agents had exited the building during his brief distraction. The target stepped into the sun. Still no sign of Johnny. Had he misjudged the man? Was it possible that Johnny was still in Paradise, plotting to recover Kelly through other means?

  Unlikely.

  A taxi pulled away from the curb and roared away from the scene without a fare. Odd, but not singularly odd in a place where a thousand cabs went a thousand places known only to the driver and the fare. Englishman dismissed the sight.

  The target was getting in a large black limousine.

  Still no sign of Johnny.

  A train of black cars, two in advance of the target’s vehicle and two behind, pulled into traffic just ahead.

  Still no sign of Johnny.

  Englishman searched frantically now. Pedestrians, security, black-and- whites, government officials, cameramen, news crews—the street in front of the UN Building was now a scene of mass confusion. Behind them sirens wailed—presumably headed for the man Englishman had shot a couple of blocks back.

  He hesitated, expecting the assassin’s approach at any moment.

  Still no sign of Johnny.

  Englishman cursed and floored the accelerator just as the target’s limousine disappeared around Fiftieth Street, a quarter of a mile ahead.

  CARL’S THOROUGH reconnaissance of these streets before his first attempt on the president’s life gave him the knowledge he now needed.

  He knew the target was headed for the airport. Which meant his entourage would probably turn on Fiftieth if they passed Forty-eigth, which they had. But to be sure, Carl waited at the alley two blocks west of the turn until they actually made it. If they continued past Fiftieth, he would have to circle north and catch them . . .

  The first black car in the train pulled into the i
ntersection and signaled. They were coming down Fiftieth Street.

  Carl slammed the car into drive and sped down the alley, away from Fiftieth Street. He skidded to a stop fifty yards short of where the alley met Forty-ninth, exited the still-running cab, and ran to the trunk, stripping off his black shirt and ripping it in two as he did so.

  He stuffed one half of the shirt into the cracks around the license plate, effectively covering it. The second half he looped around the sign on the roof that identified the cab as #651.

  Then he doubled back toward Fiftieth at a full sprint. If someone stole the car in the few minutes it would take him to execute this leg of the mission, he would have to find another. It was a chance he was willing to take.

  Both of his guns found their way into his hands as he ran. Closing on Fiftieth. Fifty yards. Twenty-five. He was going to make it. The first car drove by. Close, very close.

  Carl ran into Fiftieth at a full sprint as the second of the two lead cars passed the alley. He came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the street, turned toward the fast-approaching armored car hosting the target, lifted the gun in his right hand, and fired a shot directly at the driver.

  What Carl knew about bulletproof windshields proved true: most could indeed stop a bullet, but few could stop three if all three struck precisely the same spot on the glass. Virtually impossible unless Carl was the one pulling the trigger.

  He sent the three bullets in rapid succession, confident.

  The third bullet pierced the glass and struck the driver in the throat. Carl shifted his aim and fired three more rounds into the passenger’s side, where a guard was frantically groping for his gun. Once again the third bullet ended his attempt when it entered his throat.

  Carl dropped the half-spent clip and slammed a fresh one home as he ran toward the car, which had swerved to a stop. There were no more guards in the car—Carl had watched them enter in his rearview mirror. But the passengers in the entourage were enough to concern him.

  They’d pulled up short, thrown open the doors. Carl stood beside the target’s car, panting. He raised a gun in each hand, one aimed at the lead cars, one pointed at the rear cars. A man rose from behind the passenger door of the first rear car, and Carl shot him through his right shoulder. A second gunman stood from the closest lead car and received a bullet alongside his cheek.

  This would make them hesitate long enough.

  Carl turned his attention to the target’s car. Side windows were typically thicker than windshields and required five perfectly placed rounds, which Carl placed low and to the right, over the door lock. He reached in through the hole he’d created, unlocked the door, pulled the driver onto the asphalt, and slid into his seat as the first bullet from the guards snapped through the air where he’d stood.

  But he was now in an armored car, safe from their bullets. A thick pane of reinforced glass separated him from the man in the rear seat. Carl paid him no mind.

  He jerked the stick into reverse and surged back ten yards before reversing the direction of the car and roaring forward.

  No shots. They wouldn’t risk shooting into a car that held the man they were sworn to protect.

  Carl sideswiped both lead cars as he passed, only to slow their pursuit. The light at Third Avenue was red when he cut across oncoming traffic to a chorus of horns.

  He called 911 on the cell phone and gave the operator instructions that would lead an ambulance to the badly bleeding guard in the passenger seat within minutes. He’d hoped that neither would be mortally wounded—had he done that? The guard on his right was still breathing. Why had he shot the man through the muscle on the right side of his throat rather than taken him out with a head shot?

  Because he’d come to kill the man behind him, not his guards.

  Carl cut back onto Forty-ninth Street before the pursuit entered the road behind him. He braked hard, popped the lock on all four doors, jumped out, and threw the rear door open, gun extended.

  “Out!”

  Assim Feroz had a small pistol in his right hand, but he wasn’t sure whether to use it. Carl slapped it out of his fist.

  “Quickly!”

  He grabbed the man by his collar and jerked him through the door-way into the street. Pedestrians scrambled for cover; a woman in a lime-green dress with pink and yellow stripes began to shriek.

  Carl shoved the Iranian defense minister toward the alley.

  “You have no right—”

  “Run!”

  Feroz ran.

  “Into the alley.”

  His yellow cab waited, nose toward them.

  “In the front seat.”

  The man Carl had come to America to kill scrambled into the car, followed by Carl.

  “One word and I put a bullet in your leg.”

  Five seconds later they raced away from the parked limousine. He turned right two blocks up and pulled over long enough to remove his torn shirt from the cab’s sign and license plate.

  The Iranian was shaking with fury when Carl reentered the car. “I demand—”

  Carl slammed his door and shot Feroz in his leg at the same moment, so that the two sounded as one.

  “Ahhhh!” Feroz grabbed his leg.

  “I said no talking.”

  JOHNNY WAS in the yellow cab that had just turned west one block ahead. A piece of black cloth flapped from the sign on its roof; this was how Englishman knew.

  He’d followed the Iranian motorcade onto Fiftieth Street and came upon four of them, backing up traffic just as the fifth limousine screamed around the corner.

  By the time Englishman blasted his way through the corner, Carl had already traded the black car for another. It was Englishman’s quick eye that caught the flapping black cloth.

  But then the yellow cab disappeared around another corner. He swore and floored the gas pedal. All he needed was one moment of clear sight, and he could reach out and touch Johnny.

  He wiped the sweat leaking into his eyes with his palm. Beside him, Kelly was saying something about slowing down, but his mind was dangerously removed from her. He noted this and adjusted. She wasn’t Johnny, but she knew how to kill.

  “I’m going to end this now,” he muttered.

  “He’s going to kill Feroz,” Kelly said. “He’s going to fulfill his original order from Kalman and his oath to serve his country.”

  “You’re forgetting that I have you,” Englishman said. “If Feroz dies, then you die—the fool must know that.”

  Kelly ignored him. “He’s going to undermine Kalman by killing the party who ordered the hit.”

  Englishman had figured this much out in Paradise, but hearing her say it sent a shaft of fear through his mind. He hated Kalman, but he was under the strictest order to protect the integrity of the X Group at all costs.

  Englishman could choose to follow or reject the order. Although he’d fantasized many times about killing Kalman, he knew that he never would. It would be like cutting off his own arm.

  “No,” she suddenly blurted. “He’s going to . . . He’s . . .” Kelly stopped.

  But she didn’t need to say it. They both knew what Johnny was planning to do.

  Englishman took the car to seventy miles per hour.

  CARL WAS just entering the next turn when the cab began to shake violently.

  Assim Feroz cried out and gripped the dashboard.

  It wasn’t the kind of shake he would expect from mechanical difficulties but the kind that might come from an earthquake.

  At first Carl thought it was just that, an earthquake. But a quick glance in the rearview mirror showed him a yellow cab racing around traffic, bouncing up over the sidewalk and back on the street.

  Englishman.

  Englishman was making his car shake.

  Carl gunned the car through the turn, felt the back end buck at least a foot off the ground and then settle. They were out of Englishman’s line of sight.

  Carl now had only one objective: to reach Bellevue Hospital in one piece a
nd hope the cabdriver who owned this car was waiting as agreed.

  He saw an opening in traffic and cut left, across the oncoming lanes, into an alley that headed east toward the hospital. He didn’t know how long Englishman needed to wreak havoc with his car—more than a passing moment judging by the fact that he hadn’t already stopped them. Carl didn’t intend to give him even a moment. Second Avenue fast approached at the end of the alley, dead ahead. He would cut right and then—

  The car began to shake again, more violently this time, bouncing as much as shaking. Feroz shouted something unintelligible about Allah. Englishman’s yellow cab filled the narrow alley a hundred and fifty yards to their rear.

  Panic began a ferocious assault on Carl’s mind, but he cut it short. Fifty yards to the turn.

  He angled for a row of tin garbage cans on their right and blasted through them at high speed. Chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk. The large cans bounced high and tumbled over the car, spewing refuse as they flipped through the air.

  Twenty yards.

  Carl glanced into the mirror. What he saw nearly made him miss the turn onto Second. The garbage cans were now flying off at right angles, smashing into the alley walls. Not only the ones he’d hit but others farther back, filling the air with paper and plastic and large stuffed bags.

  Then they were on Second, squealing through a right turn, side-swiping a green sedan, narrowly missing a large bus. He was in the oncoming lanes, diving into a sea of headlights blazing in the failing light.

  But Carl had stored the layout of these streets in his mind with precision. Rather than swerve back into the right lanes, he shot toward another alley on the far side of the street. Bounced over the curb. Cut into the narrow passageway, scraping the right mirror off against the far wall.

  Metal screeched. Sparks flew. Assim Feroz cowered, head between his knees.

  First Avenue was now in sight. And half a block south, Bellevue Hospital. They had made it.