She glared back. "You made your choices. What you did for us will help you. But you're going to be in prison a long time, Connie. At least you get to live. That's more of a choice than Ken had."
She looked at Buchanan. "Now what?"
"I suggest we leave here immediately. Once were out of the area, you can call the police. When we get back to Washington, Faith and I will meet with the FBI, tell them what we know. We must keep everything completely secret. If he knows were working with the FBI, we'll never get the proof we need."
"This guy had Ken killed?"
"Yes."
"Is he with a foreign interest?"
"Actually, you both have the same employer."
Reynolds looked at him, stunned. "Uncle Sam?" she said slowly.
Buchanan nodded. "If you trust me, I will do my best to bring him to you. I have my own personal score to settle with him."
"And what exactly do you expect in return?"
"For me? Nothing. If I go to prison, I go to prison. But Faith goes free. Unless you can guarantee me that, you can just call the police right now."
Faith grabbed his arm. "Danny, you're not taking the fall for this."
"Why not? It was my doing."
"But your reason?"
"Reasons are no defense. I knew I was taking a chance when I broke the law."
"Well, so did I, dammit!"
Buchanan turned back to Reynolds. "Do we have a deal? Faith does not go to prison.
"I'm really not in a position to offer you anything." She pondered the issue for a moment. "But I can promise you this: If you are shooting straight with me, I'll do everything in my power to see that Faith goes free."
Connie stood up, suddenly looking pale. "Brooke, I need to hit the john, like quick." He was wobbly on his feet; one hand slid to his chest.
She glanced at him suspiciously. "What's the matter?" She scrutinized his pallid features. "Are you all right?"
"To tell you the truth, I've been better," he mumbled, his head rolling to one side, his left side drooping.
"I'll go with him," Lee said.
As the pair started to the stairs, Connie seemed to lose his balance and he pressed his hand hard against the center of his chest, his face contorted in pain. "Shit. Oh, God!" He dropped to one knee, moaning, saliva dripping out of his mouth; he started gurgling.
"Connie!" Reynolds started toward him.
"He's having a heart attack," Faith cried out.
"Connie!" Reynolds said again as she stared at her stricken partner, who was fast sinking to the floor, his body twitching uncontrollably.
The movement was fast. It seemed too fast for a man in his fifties, but then again, desperation could mix with adrenaline in a flash.
Connie's hand dipped to his ankle. A compact pistol was in a holster there. The gun was out and aimed before anyone could react. Connie had multiple targets, but he chose Danny Buchanan and fired.
The only one who reacted as fast as Connie did was Faith Lockhart.
From where she was standing next to Buchanan, she saw the pistol come out before anyone else. She saw the barrel pointed at her friend. In her mind she could hear the explosion that would launch the bullet that would kill Buchanan. How she moved that fast was inexplicable.
The bullet hit Faith in the chest; she gasped once and then dropped at Buchanan's feet.
"Faith!" Lee screamed. Instead of tackling Connie, he lunged for her.
Reynolds's gun was trained on Connie. As he swung the pistol around in her direction, the image of the palm reader flashed through her mind.
That all-too-short life line. MOTHER OF Two, FEDERAL AGENT DEAD. She saw the headline fully and boldly in her mind. The whole thing was almost paralyzing. Almost.
She and Connie locked gazes. He was bringing up his pistol, lining it up with her. He would pull the trigger, she had no doubt. He clearly had the nerve, the balls to kill. Did she? Her finger tightened on her own trigger as the entire world seemed to slow to the pace of an underwater world, where gravity was either suspended or magnified. Her partner. An FBI agent. A traitor. Her children. Her own life. Now or never.
Reynolds pulled the trigger once and then a second time. The recoil was short, her aim perfect. As the bullets entered Connie's body, his bulk quivered, his mind perhaps still sending messages, not yet realizing that it was dead.
Reynolds thought she saw Connie stare searchingly at her as he started to go down, the gun falling from his hand. That image would haunt her forever. Only when Agent Howard Constantinople hit the floor and didn't move again did Brooke Reynolds take a breath.
"Faith, Faith!" Lee was tearing at her shirt, exposing the horribly bloody wound in her chest. "Oh my God. Faith." She was unconscious, her breathing barely detectable.
Buchanan stared down in blank horror.
Reynolds knelt beside Lee. "How bad?"
Lee looked up in anguish. He couldn't speak.
Reynolds assessed the wound. "Bad," she said. "Slug's still in her.
The hole's right near her heart."
Lee looked at Faith. Her skin was already beginning to pale. He could feel the warmth of life spilling out from her with each shallow breath she took. "Oh, God. No. Please!" he cried out.
"We've got to get her to a hospital. Fast," Reynolds said. She had no idea where the closest hospital was, let alone a trauma center, which was what Faith really needed. And searching the local area by car would be akin to signing the woman's death warrant. She could call the paramedics, but who knew how long it would take for them to get here?
The roar of the plane engine outside made Reynolds glance at the window. The plan formed in her head within seconds. She raced back to Connie and lifted his FBI credentials from his body. For one brief moment she gazed at her former colleague. She shouldn't feel bad for what she had done. He had been well prepared to kill her. So why did she feel crushed by remorse? But Connie was dead. Faith Lockhart wasn't. At least not yet. Reynolds hustled back over to where Faith lay. "Lee, were taking the plane. Hurry!"
The group raced outside, Reynolds in the lead. They could hear the plane's engines revving up as it prepared to take off. Reynolds sprinted ahead. She headed for the wall of brush until Lee screamed at her and pointed toward the access road. She raced in that direction and a minute later found herself on the runway. She looked down at the opposite end. The plane was turning, getting ready to roar down the tarmac, lift into the air; their only hope would be gone in seconds.
She ran down the asphalt, directly at the aircraft, waving the pistol, the badge, screaming, "FBI!" at the top of her lungs. The plane came racing at her, as Buchanan and Lee, carrying Faith, burst onto the runway.
The pilot finally focused on the woman waving a pistol and coming at him. He pulled back on the throttle and the aircraft stopped its roll; the engines whined down.
Reynolds reached the plane, held up the badge and the pilot slid open his window.
"FBI," she said hoarsely. "I have a badly wounded person. I need your aircraft. You're going to fly us to the nearest hospital. Now."
The pilot looked at the badge, the gun and nodded dumbly. "Okay."
They all climbed on the plane, Lee cradling Faith against his chest.
The pilot turned the aircraft around again, went back to the end of the runway and started his takeoff roll once more. A minute later the plane lifted into the air and rushed toward the embrace of the quickly lightening sky.
CHAPTER 53
THE PILOT RADIOED AHEAD AND A LIFE-SUPPORT ambulance unit was waiting on the tarmac at the airstrip in Manteo, which was thankfully only a few minutes of flight time away. Reynolds and Lee had used some bandages from the first-aid kit on the plane to try to stop the bleeding, and Lee had given Faith oxygen from the small canister on board, but none of it seemed to have any effect. She had not yet regained consciousness; they could barely get a pulse now. Her limbs were beginning to grow cold, even as Lee clung to her, tried to give her heat from his own body, as though th
at would do any good.
Lee rode in the ambulance with Faith over to Beach Medical Center, which had an emergency and trauma center. Reynolds and Buchanan were driven there in a car. On the way to the hospital, Reynolds called Fred Massey in Washington. She told him just enough that he was already running to catch a Bureau plane. Just him, Reynolds had insisted; no one else could come. Massey had accepted this condition without comment. Perhaps it had been the tone of her voice, or simply the stunning content of her very few words.
Faith was immediately taken to the emergency room, where doctors labored over her for almost two hours, trying to get her vitals up, her heart regulated, the internal bleeding stopped. None of it looked good. Once, the crash cart even had to be called.
Through the doors Lee watched in the numbest horror as Faith repeatedly jerked under the impact of the electrical current surging through the paddles. Only when he saw the heart monitor go from flat line to its regular peaks and valleys did he find he could even move.
Barely two hours later they had to cut her chest open, spread her ribs wide and massage her heart to get it going. Every hour seemed to bring a new crisis as she barely clung to life.
Lee paced the floor incessantly, hands shoved in his pockets, head down, talking to no one. He had said every prayer he could remember.
He had made up some new ones. He was helpless to do anything for the woman, and that's what tore at him. How could he have let this happen?
How could Constantinople, that old, bulky sonofabitch, have gotten that shot off? And him right beside the guy? And Faith, why had she taken the round? Why? Buchanan should be the guy lying on that gurney with people swarming over him, trying desperately to push life back into his wrecked body.
Lee slumped against the wall and slid down to the floor, covering his face with both hands as his big body shook.
In a private room, Reynolds waited with Buchanan, who had barely spoken a word since Faith had been shot. He just sat there and stared at the wall. To look at Buchanan, no one would have guessed that anger was building in him: the absolute hatred he was holding for Robert Thornhill, a man who had destroyed everything he cared about.
About the time Fred Massey arrived, Faith was taken to the I.C.U. She was stabilized for the time being, the doctor told them. The bullet was one of those vicious dumdums, he said. It had tumbled through her body like a runaway bowling ball, doing considerable damage to organs, and the internal hemorrhaging had been severe. She was strong and for now she was alive. She had a chance, that was all, he cautioned. They would know more soon.
As the doctor walked away, Reynolds put a hand on Lee's shoulder and handed him a fresh cup of coffee.
"Lee, if she survived until now, I have to believe she's going to make it."
"No guarantees," he mumbled to himself, unable to look at the woman.
They went to the private room, where Reynolds introduced Buchanan and Lee to Fred Massey.
"I think Mr. Buchanan should start telling you his story," Reynolds said to Massey.