She nodded her consent and pulled on the oversized shirt. As she zipped up the front, she gestured to Ghafour and said, “What about him?”
Kealey glanced over, then returned his gaze to the door. “He’s dead. How long has it been?”
He sensed more than saw Pétain look at her watch. “Forty seconds,” she murmured. “Why haven’t we heard anything?”
“Give her time. Just listen for movement out—”
The second part of his sentence was cut off by a distant boom. As the noise faded away, Kealey heard the officers shifting around outside. There was a babble of voices, then the sound of fast-moving feet. He realized that some of them must be moving back to the street in response to the explosion. Moving carefully, quietly, he stepped forward, separated the blinds, and looked outside. There were two officers left. Both were facing the street, their backs to the trailer. The others were running across the site, toward the east gate. Beyond the chain-link fence, Kealey could see a thick pall of smoke rising into the clear blue sky. It was a strange, disconcerting sight, but he recognized the diversion for what it was: the only thing that might get them out of there in one piece.
“Grab the money,” he said.
“What?”
“Get the fucking money, ” Kealey repeated. He crossed to the door as Pétain lifted the duffel bag off the couch, slinging it over her shoulder. She hung back as Kealey crouched beside the door, preparing himself for what was about to happen. “Going in three,” he murmured.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
Kealey put his hand on the door and began to count. When he hit three, he flung open the door and took in the scene, moving forward the whole time. Both officers started to turn at the noise. The first was about 3 feet from the door.
“¡Ayúdenos!” Kealey shouted. “That guy in there is crazy!”
The closest officer hesitated as he turned, his eyes looking past Kealey to the open door. It gave Kealey the split second he needed. His right foot shot out, catching the officer beneath the left knee. He started to go down as Kealey pushed off his right foot, shifting his weight to the left. It was a fast movement, but not fast enough. The second officer’s right arm swung around with surprising speed, and Kealey had no choice. He fired once but didn’t see where his round hit. The officer started to fall back as Pétain advanced, her gun drawn, and aimed . . .
Kealey turned back to the first officer. He was clutching his knee and groaning, his service weapon lying a few feet away in the dirt. Kealey leaned down and snatched it up, then shoved it into the deep right pocket of his work shirt. He removed his hard hat, tossed it aside, and turned to Pétain. She had already collected the other man’s weapon; her FN Forty-Nine was still trained on the fallen officer, whose hands were raised in surrender. Looking closer, Kealey could see that his round had hit the man in the right side of his abdomen. As long as the wound was treated soon, it wouldn’t be lifethreatening.
“Let’s go,” Kealey said. Pétain nodded her assent, but he didn’t see her acknowledge his words. His attention was focused on the west gate, the one Naomi had told them to use. Kealey could see right away that it wouldn’t work; a number of construction workers were standing in their way, and their attention was riveted on what had just happened outside the trailer. A few looked like they wanted to interfere, but not one of them dared to advance. Kealey realized they had seen the whole thing. They had seen him attack, then shoot the officer. Apparently, none of the workers were willing to risk a similar fate. He turned and started to run for the east gate, his feet pounding over the dry, uneven ground. He shouted over his shoulder for Pétain to follow, but she was already there, sprinting less than 3 feet to his rear.
“Kealey, what are you doing?” she panted between breaths. “This isn’t the right—”
“You saw them,” he shouted back at her. “This is the only way out.”
“But the police are—”
“I know, but we don’t have a choice. Just keep moving! ”
CHAPTER 19
MADRID
When Naomi regained consciousness, the first thing she heard was the screams. Her entire world was pitch black, but the screams were incredibly sharp and distinct. It was almost as if hundreds of mouths were positioned on either side of her head, all of them howling directly into her ears. She tried to raise her hands to block out the awful sound, but her limbs didn’t seem to be working correctly. One voice in particular was cutting through the cacophony, but she couldn’t place it. She desperately wanted to see or hear something familiar, but everything around her was a meaningless blur.
A blur . . . That was a start, at least. Her eyes were open, and things were starting to come into focus. She was lying flat on her back. The tall shadows above her were moving fast, darting about in her peripheral vision. As she collected herself, the shadows began to take on distinct shapes. Before long they were silhouettes against the afternoon sun, and then they were people. Dozens of people running and screaming, running and screaming, standing and pointing . . . She felt a hand on her arm, then two hands, warm skin touching her own, two fingers probing the right side of her neck. Searching for a pulse, she realized. The voice was taking shape, forming words, asking if she was all right. The rough hands moved behind her, sliding under her armpits, lifting her into a sitting position. She tried to protest, but all that came out was gibberish. Whoever it was clearly had no medical training; otherwise, he wouldn’t have tried to move her at all.
“Easy, now.” The person behind her was clearly American, speaking with a distinct Brooklyn accent. “Just take it easy. You’re going to be fine.”
“What happened?”
“You speak English.” There was relief in the voice. A tourist, Naomi decided. “There was an explosion of some kind. A bomb, maybe. You were knocked out, but you’re going to be fine. Just sit and wait for the ambulance. Don’t move, okay?”
Naomi felt herself nod weakly. What happened? Did she really ask him that? Why had she asked that? She remembered squeezing the trigger, but everything that came after was a complete blank. Despite the confusion that clouded her mind, it was clear that she’d been much too close to the Toyota when she fired at the cylinders. Looking over, she saw, with surprise, that she had been thrown at least 10 feet from the mouth of the alley, perhaps more. She had known it from the start, but the space between the van and the street was just too short. If she hadn’t been using the dumpster as cover, she probably would have been killed instantly. Still, she had done the best she could; the only question now was whether or not her diversion had worked.
Her thoughts shifted to Ryan. She could hear police officers shouting orders around her—she could tell they were officers by the measured authority in their raised voices—and she could hear additional sirens in the distance. The trouble was that she had no idea how long she’d been out. Additional units of the CNP would have responded quickly, along with the paramedics, but how fast? That was the question. Naomi decided she couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a minute or two, which meant that if they were moving quickly, Ryan and Pétain should have already cleared the scene. The American tourist had moved on to the next person. Naomi climbed unsteadily to her feet, then tested her limbs and performed a quick visual check of her body, or at least what she could see. Everything seemed to be working, but she knew it was early yet. Sometimes serious wounds didn’t become obvious until the shock had passed, and she was still trying to get her bearings. She took a few uncertain steps as her vision cleared. Looking around, she saw that a number of people were lying in the street. Many were moving around, but others were completely immobile. Some were bleeding profusely.
Suddenly, it hit her that she was responsible for everything she was seeing. A wave of horror and guilt rose up in her chest, choking her as effectively as a pair of strong hands, but she pushed the emotions down as hard as she could, knowing it wouldn’t help her to focus on them now. The dizziness started to clear as she s
tumbled north, skirting the injured pedestrians in her wake. She tried not to look at their faces. She didn’t want to see, didn’t want to account for what she had done. At least not until she could absorb it properly. Three police cars were positioned close to the intersection, barely 10 meters away from the chain-link fence that marked the eastern edge of the construction site. Shifting her eyes to the left, she watched as the gate swung open and two people stepped into view. Despite the work shirts they were wearing, Naomi instantly recognized Ryan Kealey and Marissa Pétain. As she looked on in disbelief, they turned left and started along the pavement, passing within 5 meters of the closest CNP cruiser.
Why did it take them so long? And why did they come out of the wrong gate? The anger welled up as she tracked them along the sidewalk. It didn’t make sense; they should have been moving the second they heard the explosion. She watched as they cleared the cruisers, walking fast toward the intersection, then breathed a sigh of relief. They were going to make it.
Naomi kept moving forward and tried to relax, willing the tension out of her shoulders and back. All she had to do was trail at a safe distance; once they had walked a few blocks, she’d call Ryan and arrange a time and place to link up. Suddenly, she realized she no longer had the .45. She quickly checked her pockets, then her waist. The Glock 9mm was still tucked into the top of her jeans, but the .45 was definitely gone. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided there was nothing she could do about it. She certainly couldn’t go back and search for it, and she knew the Spanish police didn’t have her fingerprints on file. The best thing she could do was keep moving, but as she quickened her pace, she realized that someone was shouting. A few people, in fact. Not behind her, but in front, close to where the police cars were parked.
Her eyes darted to the left, seeking out the source of the commotion. She quickly locked onto a small group of construction workers.
Half of them were trying to get the attention of the one officer who’d stayed with the vehicles, a slight man in his early twenties. He looked incredibly young and uncertain, but he was definitely listening to what they were saying. The other half were pointing down the sidewalk. Their accusing fingers were aimed directly at Kealey and Pétain. A split second later, the officer turned and cast a long look after them, his hand dropping down to his gun. . . . Naomi started to run, a warning shout caught in her throat. She was too far away. They wouldn’t hear her, and if they did, they wouldn’t be able to react in time. She felt as if she was moving in slow motion, but she couldn’t break free of the strange sensation. Her hand dipped to her waist, lifting her sweat-soaked T-shirt, finding the grip of the Glock . . .
She wrenched it free and tried to stop, her heels skidding across the pavement. The force of the blast had caused the windows of the second-story apartments to explode outward, raining glass down onto the street. Dimly aware of the crunching sensation beneath her feet, she raised the weapon but didn’t take aim. The police officer’s gun was out now, and he was shouting something at Kealey and Pétain. Both had turned to face the officer, and even at a distance, Naomi could see the caught-out-of-position look on Ryan’s face, his hand hovering down by his side. The uncertainty was something she’d never seen before, and for a split second, it gave her pause. But only for a second. Their eyes met a moment later, and she knew what she had to do. Taking a few more deliberate steps forward, she shifted her gaze and locked onto her target. The front sight was perfectly lined up with the rear. Her finger was resting lightly on the trigger . . . All she had to do was squeeze. Kealey had heard the voices, felt Pétain’s hand tighten around his arm in warning. He didn’t need to look to know what had happened, and he knew that by turning around, he would only confirm whatever suspicions had been raised behind them. Still, he had no choice. He stopped walking and looked over his shoulder. In the same instant, he turned his body, set his feet, and let his right hand hang casually down by his side. The unsettling scenario became immediately apparent: the accusing faces of the construction workers, the fearful expressions of the civilians standing nearby, the scared but determined face of the young CNP officer in the foreground. He looked past the officer, aware of the gun coming up, the shouted command, but all he could see was Naomi’s face. She was about 15 meters behind the policeman, and her Glock 9mm was already out and up. People were screaming and diving out of the way, but their shouts merged seamlessly with the cacophony of police sirens and the cries of the wounded.
Kealey knew he wouldn’t be able to get his weapon out in time; he had waited too long. He locked eyes with Naomi, still ignoring the officer’s shouts, and tried to communicate his thoughts to her. He couldn’t be sure if she understood, or if she even knew he was trying to tell her something, but he didn’t have time to think about it. She was already moving.
The moment she fired, the officer jerked, almost as if he’d been slapped on the back, then crumpled to the ground, his final expression marked by complete confusion. As he fell, his weapon discharged once, a reflex jerk on the trigger. Kealey heard the snap of the round as it passed a few feet overhead. Naomi was still moving forward, running faster now, her feet pounding over the debrislittered pavement. Her face was fixed in an unnerving expression, something between abject horror and utter resolve. . . . Kealey couldn’t help but stare as she approached, wondering what could possibly be going through her mind, but Pétain’s voice jolted him back to reality. “We’ve got to move!” she urged, pulling frantically on his arm. Snapping out of it, Kealey stepped off the narrow sidewalk and into the street. Southbound traffic was tied up, hopelessly snarled, but the road was still relatively clear to the north. Inexplicably, one motorist had stepped out of his car to get a better look at what was happening. He was immobile, apparently unaware of the threat to his own safety. His entire body was rigid as he stared on in obvious shock. A few feet to his right, a small Ford Escort was still idling, exhaust rising up to join the pall of acrid smoke that still hung in the air. The driver’s-side door was ajar. Kealey considered training his gun on the man and shouting some kind of threat, but it wasn’t necessary. He simply pushed him aside and climbed behind the wheel. The man didn’t even protest, just fell to the ground and looked on in stunned disbelief. Pétain jumped into the passenger seat, and Naomi arrived on the run a few seconds later. Behind them, several shots rang out, pounding into the trunk of the car. One round penetrated the rear windshield, narrowly missing Naomi’s head as she threw herself into the backseat. Keeping her body below window level, she reached back to close the door and screamed at Kealey to move, but he was already slamming the car into gear. The Escort jolted forward, then accelerated rapidly as he expertly shifted into second, his left foot working the clutch. The car scraped against another vehicle on the narrow road, swerving slightly, and the driver’s-side mirror came off with a loud bang, arcing into the air before shattering on the pavement 20 feet behind them.
They were coming up on the intersection. The light was red, and a number of vehicles were waiting for it to turn. An erratic stream of cars was flowing east on Calle de San Bernardino, blocking their only escape route, but Kealey knew he didn’t have a choice. Two CNP officers had already retrieved their vehicles and were coming up fast behind him.
“Get down!” he shouted as he turned the wheel hard to the right, bouncing the car up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians dove out of the way as the Escort raced toward the intersection. The sidewalk wasn’t especially crowded, but a few people weren’t able to get out of the way in time, their bodies bouncing off the front of the vehicle. When they were almost through the light, Kealey flinched involuntarily and turned his face away from the driver’s-side door. The inevitable impact came an instant later as an eastbound sedan caught the rear end of the Escort, spinning it around in the intersection, the glass exploding in the rear windows. Kealey heard the ear-wrenching crump of metal on metal as one car after another smashed into the back of the car that had plowed into them. Everything seemed to spin crazily for a few seconds, the su
rrounding buildings hurtling past his eyes, and then the car came to rest facing oncoming traffic, rocking slightly on its worn suspension. The engine had died, and Kealey instantly downshifted to first and turned the key, praying it would start up again.
Amazingly, it did. The engine caught for an instant, but then came to life. Kealey pushed the accelerator down and swerved back into the right lane, the damaged car surging forward, racing southeast toward the city center. The pileup behind them had blocked the police cars in pursuit, but it was only a temporary delay. More units were clearly on the way, as evidenced by the wailing sirens in the near distance.
Without taking his eyes off the road, Kealey asked, “Is everyone okay? Anyone hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Pétain said, sounding strangely breathless. Looking over, Kealey saw that she was gingerly pulling the seat belt away from her chest; clearly, the collision had caught her completely off guard, and the belt had snapped taut across her body, forcing the air from her lungs.
“What about you, Naomi?”
“I’m okay,” she said in a strange monotone. Kealey shot a look over his shoulder, alarmed by the tone of her voice, but she appeared unhurt, staring fixedly past him and through the windshield. He was relieved to find they had both been wearing seat belts. He had forgotten his, but somehow he’d managed to come through unscathed.
“Take the next left,” Pétain urged as Kealey swung back around in his seat. “Calle de los Reyes.”
“Is there a parking garage on that street? Somewhere with a little privacy?” Kealey asked.
“No, but a garage would have cameras, anyway,” she reminded him. “We’ve got to dump this vehicle right now. The CNP will have the area sealed off in a matter of minutes.”
Kealey nodded sharply; he was annoyed by the fact that he hadn’t considered the cameras. Following her directions, he turned onto the narrow side street and found a parking spot alongside the curb. They all climbed out, ignoring the strange looks the battered vehicle was drawing. A number of sirens seemed to be converging on a point in the near distance, but Kealey decided they were mostly responding to the scene of the bombing on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios. None were close enough to indicate an imminent threat. He turned to Pétain. “You still have your phone?”
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