The naked edge

16

Uneasy, Cavanaugh stood at the entrance to the building. Partially blinded by the flashing lights, he watched attendants wheel the injured gunmen toward two ambulances. We got what we need, he thought. When they're conscious, we can question them. We can find out where Carl trains his men.

"I want an officer in each ambulance," Lt. Russell said.

Two policemen stepped toward the vehicles as the attendants shut the doors, and suddenly the ambulances heaved, explosions shattering their windows, blasting their rear doors open. The shockwaves knocked the ambulance attendants and the policemen to the pavement. Others stumbled back. Bystanders ran. Many screamed.

"Bombs?" Russell spun toward Cavanaugh. "What the hell's going on? How did-"

"Wyoming," Cavanaugh said, trying to recover from his shock. His skin itching from wariness, he nudged Jamie back with him into the cover of the building's vestibule. Kim noticed and retreated with them as Cavanaugh scanned the roof on the opposite side of the street. He lowered his gaze toward the windows and the entrances to the brownstones, but the emergency vehicles and the flashing lights made it difficult to see much of anything at street level.

"Wyoming? What are you talking about?" Russell demanded.

Emergency personnel ran toward the ambulances. Smoke drifted from the open doors.

"That's where this started." Cavanaugh stepped deeper into the building, Jamie and Kim following. "A hit team tried to kill me there, also."

Russell stared.

"When two members of the team were about to be captured, their car blew apart," Cavanaugh told him.

Russell stared harder.

"We think the team's leader planted a bomb under the car and used a remote control to detonate it-to keep them from being questioned. Earlier, somebody on the team shot a sniper working for them, presumably because he couldn't be counted on to keep his mouth shut."

"You're telling me, the guy who organized this attack watched from down the street and blew up his men when he saw them being carried out alive?" Russell asked in dismay.

"He might be out there even now," Cavanaugh said, prompting Russell to turn and scan the street with the intensity that Cavanaugh did.

"How the hell could he put a bomb on his men without them knowing about it or us finding it?"

A frenzied voice shouted from one of the ambulances, "They're blown in half at the waist."

"The plastic sheaths," Cavanaugh said.

"Sheaths?" Russell's voice was raw.

"For the knife each man had. Your people took the knives but left the sheaths. The plastic must have had explosive in it, along with a miniature detonator."

For the first time, Russell was speechless.

"Carl was here, watching us go into the building." Cavanaugh felt a chill. From the building's vestibule, he stared toward the crowd across the street. "Maybe he's still watching. Maybe he's up on a roof with a rifle. Lieutenant, have you still got that earbud and microphone?"

Russell pulled them from a suit pocket.

"Put the radio receiver in my ear," Cavanaugh said, feeling helpless with his hands cuffed behind him.

Russell hesitated, then did what Cavanaugh wanted.

"Please put the battery back in the microphone and raise it to my mouth," Cavanaugh said.

After less hesitation, Russell did.

"Carl?" Cavanaugh asked.

All he heard was static.

"Carl, I know you're out there. You're probably watching the entrance to this building."

More static.

"Carl, I think I know how you've been training your recruits. Remember those visualization courses our special-ops instructors arranged for us to take. We couldn't get over how fast visualization accelerates the learning curve. You used that technique reinforced by movies and video games, right? It's an efficient way to program someone."

Only static.

"I don't know what your objective is," Cavanaugh said into the microphone Russell held in front of him. "But I know you're behind all this, so there's no point in continuing to try to kill me. It won't make a difference. Nothing's going to divert suspicion from you. So quit taking the risk. I'm a worthless target."

Cavanaugh strained to listen to the plug in his ear, to ignore all the distracting shouts, doors slamming, the drone of automobile engines before him, the rumble of footsteps on stairs behind him.

The static changed subtly. Carl's voice, unheard for so many years, said, "You should have been a better friend."

Then the static changed again, as if the transmission ended.

Cavanaugh told Russell, "You can put the microphone away. He's gone."

"Carl?"

"Carl Duran," Cavanaugh said. "You and I have a lot to talk about."

Russell pulled a two-way radio from his belt. "Randall, get a SWAT team down here. Tell your men to check the roofs."

"What are we looking for?" a voice asked.

"If I'm to believe what I'm hearing: the prince of darkness."

"Who?"

"A guy who doesn't leave loose ends. I'll get you a description as soon as-"

"Six feet tall," Cavanaugh said. "Lean. Women find him attractive until they discover he almost never smiles. Strong arms, particularly his forearms, from working with a hammer and anvil."

"A blacksmith?" Russell asked.

"A master knife maker," Cavanaugh said. "He spends a lot of time thinking about blades and sheaths. I guess it finally occurred to him how sheaths could be weapons, also."

Russell stared toward the ambulances and the blood on their shattered windows. "Yeah," he said, "you and I definitely have a lot to talk about." PART SIX: