“Okay. Nick?”
Aparo came in. “So far, so good.”
“Copy that,” I said.
I was starting to wonder if I’d gotten it wrong, and was uncomfortably conflicted about how I felt about that. Despite all indications to the contrary, my gut said that Koschey was around, and I wanted him to be here. I wanted to take him out of the game and put Sokolov’s machine back in its box.
I could hear some sirens in the distance, and glanced at my watch. Five to. The president was about to arrive.
I reached a T intersection, where Vernon Street went off to the right. There was another white squad car parked there, blocking the street, two uniforms beside it talking to a woman and a kid. To my left was the edge of the school, a three-story redbrick structure built on a brick podium with stairs leading up to it. A sign told me it was the Oyster/Adams Bilingual School. It looked deserted.
“Falcon arriving at Roadhouse” a voice announced in my comms. “Repeat, Falcon arriving.”
***
OUTSIDE THE HILTON’S ENTRANCE, Everett watched as the police squad cars that had been escorting it peeled away on Connecticut Avenue while the rest of the presidential motorcade pulled into the hotel’s circular driveway.
Secret Service agents quickly slipped into their positions as the two massive armored Cadillacs rolled to a stop outside the lobby. More agents spilled out of the support vehicles that formed the tail end of the convoy.
Everett’s entire body tightened up as he watched the president emerge from his limo. The crowd beyond the cordon clapped and cheered wildly, and the president and his wife, who was there alongside him, waved back and smiled graciously. Everett couldn’t stand it. He was on edge, standing there helplessly, willing them to move on, wanting them to head inside despite knowing that they weren’t necessarily any safer there.
He saw Romita in the scrum. He was, as always, totally focused, overseeing the president’s transfer, issuing crisp orders and asking for updates over the comms. Romita looked his way and their eyes met. Romita was radiating confidence. He acknowledged Everett with a quick nod, like “Everything’s under control.”
Somehow, Everett didn’t feel as confident.
***
MY STOMACH TIGHTENED AT hearing the Secret Service code names for the president and the hotel. I pictured him getting out of his limo, surrounded by armed agents whose instincts and training had primed them to shoot to kill.
Not ideal. Not in these circumstances.
Aparo’s voice came through my earbud. “I’m done with my sweep. All clear.”
“Okay,” I replied. “Get back to the command unit. Stick with Sokolov.”
“Roger that.”
Two possible angles of attack left. Larisa’s side. And mine.
I went up to the cops with my creds out.
“Everything okay here?” I asked.
“Nothing to report,” one of them said.
“No one’s gone through,” I asked. “No black Suburbans or some other SUV in the last couple of hours?”
The other cop laughed. “Black Suburbans? You kidding me? That’s all you see around here.”
I felt a flush of worry. “You let any through?” I asked.
They glanced at each other questioningly, then shook their heads. “Nope. A couple of locals, family cars, no SUVs though.”
“Okay.” Then I added, “Stay sharp,” somewhat pointlessly.
I started to head off when I heard the woman say, “Well, make sure you let me know if you need any more pills or if I can get you a cup of hot soup or something.”
I don’t know why, but that made me stop in my tracks.
I turned to hear the cop reply, “We’ll be fine, but thank you. Very kind of you.”
I approached them again. “I’m sorry, what was that about?”
They looked at me curiously.
“The pills? The soup? You feeling okay?”
They all did a double-take, like this was such a weird query.
“Talk to me,” I prodded.
“We’re fine,” the cop said. “It’s just, maybe an hour ago. We both had a dizzy spell.”
“Nauseous,” the other cop added. “Felt like my head was going to cave in.”
“I think you boys have been standing out here too long without anything to drink,” the woman said. “And you too, young man,” she added, addressing her son. She looked up at me. “Sammy here fell off his bike earlier.”
“Mom,” the boy groaned, like she was embarrassing him.
My mind was hurtling elsewhere. “When was this, you said? An hour ago?”
“Around then,” one of the cops said.
“Any cars drive by at the time?” I asked, my pulse rocketing.
“I can’t remember,” he said. “We were both kind of out of it. Not for long, but—”
“Didn’t that minivan drive past then?”
“I can’t remember.” He smiled sheepishly at me. “I was busy trying to hold it together.”
My whole body went rigid. I turned away from the cops and hit my comms. “Leo, you there?” I hissed. “Leo.”
It took a couple of seconds, then his voice burst back. “Reilly?”
“Leo, that thing you used on the Russian at your apartment, when he came for you. You said it fogged his mind and made him feel sick? Can the machine in your van also do that?”
“Yes,” he said. “There are five different presets I’ve programmed into the control screen on the laptop. One of them is that one.”
My heart was like a battering ram in my rib cage. “Did you tell Koschey about the different settings? Does he know what they are?”
“Yes,” Sokolov said.
I was already sprinting away from the cops, heading up Nineteenth, my fingers tight against the helmet.
“He’s here,” I blurted into my mike. “Nick, you copy? Koschey is here and he’s gonna use it.”
72
I charged up Nineteenth, my eyes scrutinizing every parking bay and every driveway, but I already had an idea of where he’d be.
It was Everett’s voice that burst into my ear. “Can you see him? Do you have confirmation?”
“No,” I fired back. “But he’s here. He used it to get past one of your roadblocks on Nineteenth Street.”
“Where? Are you sure?”
It was pointless. I knew Romita wouldn’t act based solely on my assumption. Besides, maybe it was too late. There wasn’t much they could do. Rushing the president back out of there might expose him to even more danger, what with the heightened tension around him and the agents’ readiness to draw weapons and fire.
I brought up my wrist mike. “Nick. Where are you?”
“Just got to the command unit,” he replied. “I’m with Sokolov.”
“Find Everett. Help him convince Romita this is real. They need to get POTUS to safety.”
“Got it.”
I found the entrance to the school’s parking lot tucked away by the far side of the building, in a gap between some trees. I crossed the street and tucked into it.
He was here. He was definitely here.
Moving briskly, I shoved the extra earbud into my ear before slipping on the helmet and strapping it on tightly. Then I pulled out my Hi-Power, flicked the safety off, and chambered a round.
I was hugging the building, focused on the open area beyond the alley that sat directly behind the hotel. I could see some parked school buses at the far end of the lot, to my right. I couldn’t see what was beyond the building, to my left, the area that backed up to the rear of the Hilton.
Everett’s voice came back in my ear.
“Reilly. The president is inside. I repeat, the president is inside. All federal agents are maintaining the perimeter. Romita is inside and coordinating from the ballroom.”
“Copy that,” I said, low, into my mike.
“Do you have confirmation yet?”
“No,” I replied tersely. “But it might be too late by the ti
me I do.”
“Standing by,” was all he came back with.
Dammit.
I crept up to the corner of the building and looked out. There was a playground to my left. It led to the basketball court. Then on the far side, right at the edge of the property, by the wall of a low-rise apartment complex, I saw a silver minivan. It was facing the buses, its tail end facing the rear of the hotel.
Its rear door was slung upward, wide open.
I could also see a silhouette in the driver’s seat.
Koschey.
A deathly quiet had descended on the area around me while my comms bud was crackling with rapid-fire chatter of agents reporting positions and statuses.
“Everett,” I rasped into my mike. “I can see him. He’s here. Do you have POTUS locked down?”
“Hang on,” Aparo replied. “He’s with Romita.”
I pictured Everett arguing with the director of the Secret Service while the president and his guests were having a whale of a time as the proceedings got under way, none of them having a clue that they were only a hairsbreadth from being turned into murderers, from having their humanity stripped away and being turned into nothing but instinctual beasts waging close-quarter warfare until the last man was left standing.
“Everett, get him locked down, goddammit,” I hissed. “Get those helmets on.”
“I’m trying,” Everett shot back.
I quickly ran through my options. There was about forty yards of open terrain between me and the minivan. Too far to score a hit, too wide an area to cross. Koschey would take me out before I got halfway there.
I had to try it.
I leaned out, scoping the terrain, picking out potential cover I could use on the way. Then I saw Koschey’s hand edge out of the car’s side window and almost instantly, a bullet punched into the brick wall inches from my face, spraying debris all around me.
I sprang out and put three quick rounds in his windshield and ducked back into cover.
Then I felt something happening inside my head.
73
At first, it was like an electric pulse had danced across the inside of my skull, like a tiny Taser had reached in and tapped my eardrums and gone in deeper. Then I started to feel dizzy and I felt my eyes going in and out of focus.
Koschey had switched it on, and I was too close to it.
Sokolov’s makeshift protection wasn’t blocking it all out.
Koschey wasn’t shooting back, nor was he coming for me. I knew he was in no rush. He assumed I’d soon be under the effect of the device. It would make me mad with rage, irrationally aggressive. And in my crazed state, I wouldn’t be thinking tactically. I’d just break cover and rush him mindlessly—literally—and he’d be able to pick me off without even looking while the Hilton ballroom would be turning into a shooting gallery, with the president on the podium being the grand prize.
I had to focus. Concentrate. Try to block it out. But I couldn’t. It was the weirdest feeling. I could feel my consciousness draining away, Sokolov’s waves just choking it out of me.
In a matter of seconds, I’d be under its spell.
***
AT THE EDGE OF the Hilton’s ballroom, Aparo felt the discomfort in his ears as he clutched his helmet and watched the intense argument going on between Everett and Romita.
Reilly was right, he thought. It was happening.
He scanned left and right, his mind racing, desperate for a way to stop the inevitable. He knew Romita would be a hard-ass, knew Everett would have a tough time getting him to do what he needed to do—and even if he did, the odds were against them. The killer signal would still, in all likelihood, get through.
He needed something else and he needed it fast, otherwise he and everyone else around him would soon be dead.
He had to help Reilly. That was the only thing he could do. Help him take down Koschey.
He ran up the stairs and out the lobby and was about to radio Reilly to find out the quickest way there when he spotted something he’d missed.
A black Chevy Suburban, part of the presidential motorcade, just behind the two Cadillacs.
Not just any Suburban.
This one had two big collinear antennas mounted on its roof.
Aparo dashed toward it.
***
I COULD SENSE AN anger swelling up inside me, a primal anger at nothing specific, and yet everything at the same time. I was desperate to block it out, desperate to do anything to keep control of my senses, but I was helpless and could only wait for control over my mind to be ripped away from me.
I didn’t dare think of what might be happening in the ballroom.
I forced myself to focus on the situation again, my besieged mind racing for a solution. I couldn’t charge him, not given how good a shot he was, not given his tactical advantage. He was manning his fort, and I was a foot soldier looking to charge across the trenches. Never a winning strategy. I needed something else. Something to bridge that advantage gap.
I scanned around, seconds flying past.
The buses. Sitting there about thirty yards away from me.
There was a low wall separating the parking lot from the playground, around halfway to the buses. I figured I could break the journey in half by taking cover there.
I also heard some shots fired from beyond, along with a solitary shout. Then another. The microwaves were starting to have an effect.
It was time to stop thinking and just move.
I sprang to my feet and darted across the open asphalt, shooting for cover before slamming into the side of the wall and crouching low. I caught my breath and was about to cover the second leg when several bullets slammed into the wall around me. They weren’t coming from Koschey. Confused, I spun and raised my gun, panning across to where I thought they’d come from. And I saw Larisa coming up the driveway from the street, gun raised, advancing toward me—and still firing.
She was wearing her helmet, but it wasn’t doing its job. Sokolov’s hasty efforts in the chopper were obviously not keeping the signal out, not as well as mine was. Either that or she just wanted to kill me.
“What are you doing?” I yelled out.
She kept firing. A bullet scraped my arm, sending a jolt of pain up through my shoulder as she loosed two more shots.
I stared at Larisa, had her in my sights—something inside me wanted to kill her, right there and then. I wanted to blast her to bits, to empty my whole clip at her, and it took all the resolve and willpower I could muster to resist pulling the trigger. She had a blank expression, like she was in a daze. It had to be the signal, and I couldn’t just cut her down.
Worse, she would soon be in open ground and in Koschey’s sights.
I fired at her feet, hoping to stop her, to get her to stay behind the wall. But she didn’t react, didn’t go for cover. It was like she’d lost the ability to defend herself. Rage superseded everything else. All she could think of, all she was programmed to do at that moment, was to kill.
I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to kill the machine.
Repeating this thought over and over in my head and using it as a mantra to try to keep control over my consciousness, I raised my gun and emptied the clip toward Koschey as I dashed toward the nearest bus.
I kept mouthing it to myself as I pulled the driver’s door open and jumped in, hoping Larisa was still standing. More rounds drilled into the side of the bus, which told me that Koschey hadn’t hit her. I tucked my weapon into my waist and yanked the ignition wiring out from under the dashboard, immensely grateful for old-school buses and their antiquated, easily hot-wireable electrics.
Three seconds later, the big diesel engine in the back grumbled to life.
“Kill the machine. Kill the machine.” I was shouting it now.
I glanced out the side window. Koschey’s Dodge minivan was lined up almost directly behind me.
Now or never.
I slammed it into reverse and floored the pedal.
The big bu
s lurched backward and shot across the lot, its engine whining like a wounded beast. I made a couple of micro-adjustments with the steering wheel before bracing myself just as the yellow mammoth plowed into the minivan. It kept going, pushing it through the mesh fencing around the basketball court before crushing it against the side of the school building in an earsplitting crunch of metal against brick.
Then it all went quiet.
I drew my weapon and pulled the helmet off my head. Waited for a second.
No buzzing, no internal Taser sensation. Nothing.
I scrambled around to the back of the bus. The minivan was all mangled up and accordioned against the side of the building. The front section was crushed right in past the front seats.
Koschey wasn’t in there.
I heard a rustle behind me and spun to face it, but before I made it around, I heard three quick, successive rounds that whipped the air and shattered the serenity of the empty school grounds.
Koschey collapsed onto the asphalt of the basketball court. Farther back, at the edge of the open ground, Larisa was standing in full shooting stance, her gun still held tight in front of her in a straight-armed, two-fisted grip.
I leveled my gun at her, unsure as to whether she had fully regained her senses. I wouldn’t get a chance to fire if she took the first shot—she seemed to be a decent enough shot to take me down with her first pull. But she didn’t fire. She just lowered her gun and walked over to me, her face scrunched up with confusion.
“What happened?” she asked.
I smiled. “You saved my life,” I told her.
“But . . . what about . . . ?” She was staring at the wound on my arm, still foggy-brained but wondering, like maybe some part of her memory had registered that.
“It’s over,” I told her.
I sucked in a deep breath. Larisa took off her helmet.
We wandered over to where Koschey had fallen. He was dead, two to the chest and one to the head. Larisa was definitely a good shot, and Koschey’s soul—if he ever had one—was taking the slow train to an eternal sentence at a Siberian gulag.
“Nick,” I said into my comms mike. “It’s done. Koschey’s dead. We’re clear.”