Final Vector (29 page)

In addition to the four keys, the ring contained a souvenir one dollar gaming token from one of the casinos the couple had visited on their honeymoon in Las Vegas five years ago, as well as a bronze medallion Lisa had given him for Christmas three years ago that was supposed to keep him safe under any circumstances. Nick had laughed like it was the most ridiculous thing he ever heard, but he had never been without it since that day. Now he wished Lisa had bought one for herself.

Hefting the key ring in his hand, Nick decided it was not quite as heavy as he would have liked, but it would have to do the trick.

It wasn't like he had a lot of other options.

He lifted the handgun off the floor and placed it in his left hand, wincing as the muscles in his arm spasmed from the effort it took to wrap his hand around the black matte grip. The throbbing intensified, and Nick could hear a faraway roaring sound in his ears. Slowly he rose from his crouching position until he was standing fully erect behind the corner of the open door. His knees cracked and he froze, praying neither of the men heard the noise, which sounded as loud as a thunderclap to him.

Nick held his breath and waited for the surprised shouts from inside the Fishbowl that would tell him he had been spotted, followed immediately by the automatic rifle fire that would rip his body to shreds.

When it became obvious that his position was not compro-mised, he placed his eyes squarely against the inch-and-a-half opening between the hinged edge of the open door and the jamb.

The terrorist sitting at the conference table would pose no immediate threat--his back was to Nick--but the other one continued to pace like a caged lion. Nick knew he had to time it perfectly, waiting to act until the man turned to march in the opposite direction.

Nick figured this would give him maybe three seconds to clear the door and take down the two men. Maybe. If everything went ac-cording to plan.

When the terrorist turned to start pacing in the other direction, Nick rushed into the Fishbowl.

He took one giant step forward and then flung his key ring as hard as he could at the opposite wall.

Shudders racked Kristin's body, rousing her reluctantly from her state of unconsciousness. The first thing she noticed was the pain in her mangled leg. She hadn't thought it could get any worse, but she had been wrong. White-hot agony constituted her entire existence and was now joined by a traveling companion--the relatively minor pain of a damaged nose. Dried blood crusted her face, and every pulse beat caused her nose to throb in perfect timing with her ruined knee.

Her head rested on the floor facing left, and at that angle she could see the combat boots of the man who had shot her. He was walking back and forth on the far side of the long conference table and talking to the other man, who was seated at the table behind her. She wondered how long she had been out and decided that it must not have been too long if they were still here.

The two terrorists were trying to decide whether to call upstairs to the Operations Room. They wanted to know whether Air Force One had been blown out of the sky yet, which meant there was at least the slimmest possibility that it had not. The president might still be alive. Kristin knew this would be her last chance to try to save him.

She twisted her head in the other direction, ignoring the pain in her nose, and searched along the base of the wall fronting the foyer, finding what she was looking for on the carpet by the door.

Her stomach clenched as she thought about trying to move, remembering the debilitating pain that had ripped through her body the last time she attempted it, a pain so strong she had vomited and then passed out. She could still taste the sour puke in her mouth.

Kristin knew the terrorist pacing on the far side of the table could not see her. The angle was all wrong; the table blocked his view. The other man she was not so sure about. It was entirely possible that he
could
see her, but from the intensity of the conversation and the fact that she was so gravely injured, Kristin felt the chances were fairly good that they had forgotten all about her, at least for the time being. They no longer considered her a threat, if they ever had.

Once again, Kristin planted her elbows into the plush carpeting and prepared to move. This time she knew what to expect, so hopefully she could steel herself against the onslaught of pain.

She closed her eyes tightly, preparing to fight off the roiling black clouds that were even now threatening to impinge on her vision and drag her down into the blessed relief of unconsciousness again.

She had to stay conscious. If Kristin passed out this time, she would never wake up again. She didn't know how she knew this, only that she did. When she reopened her eyes, she discovered that the clouds had diminished a bit. It was time. Kristin balled her hands into fists, digging her fingernails into her palms until they threatened to draw blood, and dragged herself forward. One inch. Two.

She was still awake, although between the fire coursing through her leg and the sharp pain in her throbbing nose she felt as though she would get sick again at any moment. The terrorists didn't seem to have noticed her yet. She kept going. Another inch.

Her useless leg dragged behind her, trailing drying blood along the carpet. She felt woozy and ill. She gritted her teeth and kept going.

Brian reached for the telephone on the conference table. It was amazing how many phones there were inside this building. In this small conference room alone there were two. He had tried to figure out approximately how many phones this building contained while sitting here bored out of his mind and discovered he couldn't even hazard a guess. It was a lot; that was for sure.

Jackie was still doing his goddamned marching drill, and it was driving Brian crazy. He couldn't wait for Tony to tell him that the guys were finished down at Logan Airport so they could make their escape. Brian had to admit it was starting to look like maybe they would actually get out of here alive, but either way, at least he wouldn't have to put up with that lunatic Jackie anymore.

Brian picked up the phone, and as he did, a jangling silver blur whizzed past his head a couple of inches to his right. It smashed into a strange-looking modern art print hung on the far wall with a metallic crash, making him jump and cringe. He dropped the phone in surprise, and it bounced off the polished surface of the long table and fell to the floor.

Jackie ducked and spun around to face the threat, sliding the rifle off his shoulder where it hung from a leather strap. The cigarette dropped out of his mouth and fell to the floor. Instantly it began smoldering on the flame-resistant carpet. Thick black smoke of surprising intensity started to fill the room.

For one second everything was still; then the sudden silence was broken by the unmistakable staccato bark of a pistol shot.

Brian reached for his weapon, the telephone forgotten on the floor.

As soon as the keys left his hand, Nick pulled the gun out of his unresponsive and numb left hand. It was a miracle he hadn't dropped it in the short time it took to whip the keys against the Fishbowl wall.

He aimed at the pacing terrorist, who was pivoting and bringing his rifle to bear on Nick. He squeezed the trigger, and the resulting blast was unbelievably loud, echoing off the walls of the small room and ringing in his ears. It was almost disorienting.

The gun bucked wildly and the shot missed, blasting a fist-sized hole in the far wall. Chunks of drywall and pieces of two-by-four stud flew everywhere, tiny missiles peppering the room but incredibly not hitting the terrorist. Or if they had, he didn't react.

Fine white dust blew out of the hole and coated the man's arm. The art print Nick had ruined with the keys fell to the floor, jarred off the wall by the concussive pistol blast.

Nick couldn't believe his eyes. The man was still standing. He was less than ten feet away, and the bullet had missed him. Even though he had never fired a pistol before, even though he was shaking and slipping into shock, even though he was blasting away at a moving target while on the move himself, Nick had fully expected to put the man down.

Now he was in big trouble. Nick squeezed the trigger again.

This time the sound of the bullet being fired was muffled, like he was hearing it underwater as his ears were still ringing from the first shot.

The terrorist tumbled backward, crashing into the corner of the conference room with a force that surprised Nick. He bounced off the wall and fell to the floor, where he shuddered once and was still.

Nick frantically tried to sight the pistol in his badly shaking hand to take out the other terrorist. But the missed first shot cost him. When Nick located the man, he knew right away that he was too late. The terrorist had his weapon aimed at Nick's chest. Unlike Nick's gun, this man's weapon was held firmly and steadily in two hands. A look of grim determination spread across the man's face. He was not rushing; he was moving at a measured, almost leisurely pace.

It was over. Nick could not escape.

Nick waited for the end, seeing everything in slow motion. It felt as though he had been inside the Fishbowl for hours, bullets flying everywhere, but in reality it had been less than half a minute.

Powdery white drywall dust continued to fly, riding the air currents, slowly making its way across the room to where Nick was standing. The last of the chunks of plaster and wood chips blasted out of the wall by his first errant shot--the missed shot that had condemned Nick to death--were touching down at destinations all over the room.

The terrorist Nick had actually hit lay still on the wreckage littering the conference room floor. His eyes were open but unfo-cused. He was dying.

Nick knew he would be joining the man in death in a second.

He was still fighting, still desperately trying to get his weapon to do what his brain was telling it to do, but he felt slow and off balance, lopsided somehow. The gun refused to point at the second terrorist. It refused to do anything at all. It was stuttering in his shaking hand, and he knew he would never hit anything he was aiming at. The ironic thought occurred to him that he might actually shoot himself.

Nick watched as the second man took forever to aim at his chest. He was going to be shot in the heart as he watched it happen. In a corner of his mind, Nick marveled at the capacity of the human brain to comprehend such things. He wondered if Lisa had watched the knife slit her throat wide open while she was trapped in her car. He hoped not.

The pistol was now incredibly heavy in his hand and completely useless. It felt like he was holding a brick. His shoulder was burning, his left hand numb. Nerve damage, he figured; it had to be.

He wondered how it would feel to die, whether there would be a lot of pain or maybe none at all. He thought about Lisa and hoped she would be waiting to greet him, wherever he ended up after this.

He finally heard the shot that would end his life, the sound fuzzy and strange thanks to the damage the other shots had done to his ears. The sound of the bullet being fired seemed strangely insignificant considering it was to be the instrument of his death.

Nick waited to be blasted across the room and into the wall like the man he had shot. He waited to grab instinctively at the hole in his chest.

It didn't happen. Nothing happened.

Instead, he watched in slack-jawed amazement as the man who was going to kill him was lifted into the air and smashed down onto the conference table, struck in the side of the head by a bullet. Shards of bone and grey brain matter splattered the wall to Nick's left as the man's blood sprayed onto the off-white background, completing a Daliesque tableau of bloodred destruction inside the Fishbowl.

The terrorist's body flopped on the table as comprehension dawned in his dimming eyes. His hands opened and closed like he was reaching for something with which to pull himself upright as he gasped for air. The left side of his skull was gone, replaced by a jagged, gaping hole. He twitched twice and finally was still.

Nick glanced to the right in time to see Special Agent Cunningham, eyes wide, nose mashed grotesquely to the side of her face, standing on one leg in a modified shooter's stance, leaning back against the far corner of the room for support.

Her lips were sheet white, Casper the Friendly Ghost white, and she was shaking as badly as Nick was, maybe more so. She looked at Nick with haunted eyes and opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Nick heard an unintelligible croaking noise that morphed into a whimper as the gun fell from her hand. She stumbled toward him, her weight shifting to her horribly mangled right leg, and crumpled to the floor.

Nick clutched a bouquet of yellow roses in his good hand as he paused in front of the open hospital door. He felt foolish. He was sweating and just as nervous as he had before facing off against the terrorist known as Tony Andretti--authorities were still attempting, thus far to no avail, to determine his real name and country of origin, not that Nick really cared--armed only with a rechargeable pneumatic nail gun.

"Jeez, asshole, get a grip," he muttered to himself, pushing through the doorway and into the hospital room before he could lose his nerve. Inside, Agent Cunningham stared listlessly at a television bolted into a metal stand in the upper left corner of the room.

She looked impossibly tiny and helpless in the bed, surrounded by beeping machines and what appeared to be shiny metallic and chrome torture devices. Her right leg was immobilized, suspended above the bed by a system of pulleys and cables that looked to Nick like they should be used to hoist a building.

One of the network news shows was broadcasting on the snowy screen of the television, treating the story of the attempted assassination of President Cartwright with the usual overblown media hysteria.