Suddenly the pair of soldiers in front of them stiffened.
“Trouble,” Masterson said and pushed Elizabeth down the street. “Run!”
Rosauro spun on a heel and snap-kicked the closest soldier in the face. Bone cracked, and he fell stiffly backward. The other guard lifted his weapon, but Luca was quicker on the draw with his pistol. Blood exploded from the soldier’s shoulder, twisting him around as if mule-kicked, but his weapon chattered with automatic fire, sweeping toward them.
Masterson rolled and shielded Elizabeth, while both Luca and Rosauro dropped flat to the street. The professor fell against her and knocked her to her knees. Luca’s pistol cracked again, and the gunfire ended.
Masterson slid off her and slumped to the road. Elizabeth had felt the shuddering impacts into his body. He rolled to his back while blood pooled under him.
“Hayden!”
He waved her off, still holding his cane. “Go!”
The motorcycle screamed down the road toward them all.
Rosauro yanked her up.
Luca fired at the motorcycle, but it swerved behind cars and debris for cover. Return fire from the soldier in the sidecar sparked the pavement around them.
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” Masterson said again, blood bubbling at his lips.
“Hayden…” She covered her mouth, unable to find the words to thank him, to forgive him.
Still, he saw it in her eyes and gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment with a shadow of a smile, content. “Go…,” he said hoarsely, eyelids closing.
Rosauro pushed her down the street toward the next intersection. Luca kept firing one-handed behind him as he ran—then the slide on his pistol popped open, out of ammunition. Strafing fire chased them.
Rosauro guided them alongside the edge of the road, putting a rusted truck between them and the cycle. “Around the corner!”
But they’d never make it.
No longer under fire, the cycle roared straight for them.
Elizabeth looked over her shoulder. As the motorcycle swerved through the bodies in the street, Masterson suddenly rolled with the last of his strength and jammed his cane into the front wheel of the bike. The stout rod snapped and sent the cycle flipping up on its front tire and over. It crashed upside down and slid across the rough pavement, casting sparks and leaving a bloody smear.
Rosauro urged them all onward. “Hurry!”
Hopefully the cycle’s roar had covered most of the gunplay, but they had to be away from here as quickly as possible. Reaching the intersection, they headed along the next street. A quarter mile down the road stood a bright hotel, freshly painted, lights glowing. A few polished black limousines waited at the curb.
They hurried toward it. Luca tossed aside his empty pistol, and they did their best to straighten and dust off their clothes into some semblance of normalcy. They slowed when they reached the hotel and strode toward it, as if they belonged. No one accosted them. The hotel was mostly deserted, just a pair of drivers lounging in the lobby. A few staff members also worked behind a desk. Everyone else appeared to be at the ceremony.
Rosauro crossed to the front counter. “Is there a phone we could use? We…we’re with the New York Times.”
“Press room…over there,” a tired-eyed young man said in halting English. He pointed toward a door off the lobby.
“Spazeebo,” Rosauro thanked him.
She led them through the door. The room was square with a low counter that ran along the full perimeter of the space. A central table held mounds of office supplies: reams of paper, stacks of pads, pens, staplers. But what drew Elizabeth’s attention were the two-dozen black telephones that rested along the wall counter.
Rosauro headed to one side, picked up the receiver, and listened for a dial tone. She nodded her satisfaction. As she dialed, she said, “I’ll alert central command. They’ll spread the word and get an evacuation started.”
Elizabeth sank into a neighboring chair. In the momentary calm, she began to tremble all over. She could not stop. Masterson’s death…it broke something inside her. Tears started flowing—grieving for the professor, but also for her father.
Rosauro finished dialing and waited. A frown slowly formed, and her eyebrows pinched together.
“What’s wrong?” Luca asked.
She shook her head, worried. “There’s no answer.”
12:50 A.M.
Washington, D.C.
Painter knocked lightly on the locker room door and pushed it cautiously open. He was met by a pistol pointed at his face. Kat lowered the weapon, her eyes relieved.
“How’s everyone?” he asked and followed her inside.
“So far, so good.”
A Sigma corpsman took up her position at the door. Kat led Painter into the main room, lined by banks of metal lockers and benches. At the back was an archway that led to the showers and sauna.
Kat led him to a neighboring aisle. He found Malcolm on a bench, and Lisa seated on the floor, her arm around Sasha. The girl stared up at him with large blue eyes and rocked slightly. Her gaze found Kat’s, and her entire body relaxed.
Lisa stood. She had changed into a fresh pair of scrubs, no longer covered in blood. Kat bent down, picked up Sasha, and sat on the bench with her. She whispered in the girl’s ear, which drew a small smile from the child.
Lisa slipped into Painter’s arms, then stared up at him for a breath. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, concerned.
Painter thought he’d been hiding it well, but how did one completely mask the fury and grief that filled him now?
“It’s Sean,” he said.
Kat and Malcolm glanced over to him.
Painter took a deep breath. “The bastard killed him.” He could still hear the gunshot, the snap of feedback, and see his friend’s body fall.
“Oh, God…,” Lisa mumbled and pulled tighter to him.
“Mapplethorpe’s heading down here, searching for the girl.” Painter checked his watch.
Kat noted his attention. “The fail-safe?”
“Set for four minutes.” Painter prayed he had everything prepared correctly. The air was now heavy with the sweet-smelling accelerant.
“If we have to defend the room,” Kat asked, “do we have to worry about the gunfire igniting the air?”
He shook his head. “The compound functions like aerosolized C4. It takes a strong electrical spark to set it off, not a flash of fire.”
Lisa kept to his side. “Then what do we do from here?”
Painter waved them to their feet. He wanted to protect them as best he could. He would lose no others. But he didn’t have much to offer.
“We’d better hide.”
Mapplethorpe followed his commando team down the hall.
He had employed this same group of men many times in the past, a mercenary team that included former British S.A.S. and the South Africa’s Recces. They were his muscle across the world political map. They shied at nothing that was asked of them: assassinations, kidnappings, torture, rape. Whatever clandestine operation he needed run, these men would get it done. Best of all, afterward they would simply disappear, leaving no trace, just shadows and ghosts.
It was hard men such as these who kept the country secure. Where others feared to tread, these soldiers did not balk.
The point man reached a door at the end of the hall. Its sign read LOCKER ROOM. The soldier held up a fist. In his other hand, he clutched an electronic tracker.
Earlier, Trent McBride had reported that the child’s microchip transmitter was still functioning. There was no place she could hide. They’d picked up her signal on this level.
The commando waited upon his order to proceed.
Mapplethorpe waved him through the door. He checked his watch. The fail-safe was set for another three minutes. In case Painter Crowe decided not to abort the firestorm, he wanted the girl nabbed and evacuated. If they were quick enough, it should not be a problem. An emergency exit lay at the other end of the hallway and led off to an underground garage.
Ahead, the soldiers burst through the door and ran low and fast into the next room. Mapplethorpe followed in their wake, closing the door behind him. He heard quiet orders flow among the group as they spread through the rows of lockers.
Mapplethorpe followed the commando with the tracker, flanked by two more soldiers. The lead man ran along the lockers, his arm held high. He finally reached the source of the signal, dropped his arm, and pointed.
In the silence, Mapplethorpe heard a faint whimper coming from inside the locker.
At last.
A padlock secured the door, but another soldier whipped out a small set of bolt cutters and snapped the lock off.
Mapplethorpe waved. They were running out of time. “Hurry!”
The head commando tugged the locker’s handle and yanked the door open. Mapplethorpe caught a glimpse of a digital tape recorder, a radio transmitter—and a Taser pistol wired to the door.
A trap.
Mapplethorpe turned and ran.
Behind him, the pistol fired with a pop and a crackle of electricity.
Mapplethorpe screamed as he heard a loud whuff of ignition, sounding like the firing of a gas grill. A flash of heat, and a fireball blew outward. It picked him off his feet and carried him down the row. His clothes roasted to his back. He breathed flames, his scalp burned to bone. He struck the wall, no longer human, just a flaming torch of agony.
He rolled and burned for a stretch of eternity—until darkness snuffed him away.
A floor below in the gym locker room, Painter heard the screams echoing down from the medical locker room directly overhead. He had set the trap above, knowing Mapplethorpe would come searching for the girl’s signal. He had planted one of the Cobra radio transceivers used to draw off the helicopters back at the safe house. Like before, he set the device to mimic the girl’s signal.
As a boy, Painter had often gone hunting with his father on the Mashantucket Reservation, his people’s tribal homelands. He had grown skilled at the art of baiting a trap and luring prey. Today was no different.
His false trail had drawn the others like moths to a flame.
And like those moths, they met a fiery end.
