Balance of Power

FORTY-NINE

Breathing proved extremely painful for McCaskey. But as his FBI mentor, Assistant Director Jim Jones, once pointed out, “The alternative is not breathing and that ain’t better.” Bulletproof vests were designed to stop slugs from entering the body. Vests couldn’t stop them from impacting hard and breaking ribs or — depending upon the caliber and proximity of firing — from causing internal bleeding. Yet as much as McCaskey was in pain, his concern was not for himself. He was worried about María. He had delayed going out, to see if he could get into Amadori’s uniform. But the general was too tall, the clothes were too bloody, and McCaskey couldn’t speak Spanish. A bluff would only delay the soldiers for a moment or two — not worth the effort.

Suddenly, there was a beep down the hall. It was an incoming message on the major general’s radio. McCaskey figured they didn’t have long before the soldiers came to see why the man wasn’t answering.

More soldiers began arriving in the courtyard. McCaskey poked his head out the door. To the east of the arches was Calle de Bailén — and freedom. But it was over one hundred yards to the road. Once María left the safety of the arches there would be nothing to shield her from the soldiers. And she’d be carrying Luis instead of her weapon. McCaskey didn’t know whether the soldiers would cut her down. He did know that they’d be foolish to let her or anyone else go. Not after all they’d witnessed here about the treatment of prisoners.

McCaskey decided that he was going to have to try to get to María and cover her as she left. As he was about to ask Ferdinand for his help, the Spaniard said something and offered McCaskey his hand.

“Is he planning to leave us?” McCaskey asked.

“He is,” replied Norberto.

“Hold on,” McCaskey said. He refused to take Ferdinand’s hand. “Tell him that I need his help getting to María. He can’t go.”

Norberto translated for McCaskey. Ferdinand answered, shaking his head while he did.

“He says he’s sorry,” Norberto informed McCaskey, “but his familia needs him.”

“I need him too!” McCaskey snapped. “I’ve got to reach Luis and María — get them out of here.”

Ferdinand turned to go.

“Dammit,” McCaskey shouted, “I need someone to cover me!”

“Let him go,” Norberto said flatly. “We’ll both go to your friends. They won’t shoot us.”

“They will when they realize that their leaders are dead.”

There were loud footsteps down the hall. They were followed by gunshots. Ferdinand screamed.

“Shit!” McCaskey yelled. “Let’s go.”

Father Norberto’s face was impassive but he hesitated.

“You can’t help him,” McCaskey said and started toward the door. “Come on.”

Norberto went with him. McCaskey moved as fast as he could, each step bringing sharp pain along both sides. He tried to raise his left arm; a blinding flash stabbed his lungs and arched his spine. He switched his gun to his other hand. He wasn’t as good left-handed, but he’d made up his mind that he was going to get to María — crawling if necessary, but he was going to reach her.

The two men stepped outside with Father Norberto between McCaskey and the soldiers. McCaskey stumbled from the lingering pain of having tried to lift his arm. The priest grabbed his left arm. McCaskey leaned on him gratefully. As he did, Father Norberto took the gun from him.

“What are you doing?!” McCaskey shouted.

The priest held the gun butt-up. Then he bent and laid it on the courtyard. “I am giving them one reason less to shoot at us.”

“Or one more!” McCaskey cried as they continued walking.

He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about the soldiers shouting at them in Spanish. María was watching them from behind the base of the arch, her gun in sight.

There was a shot and a loud chink roughly a yard from Father Norberto. Stone chips flew toward them. One of them struck the priest in the thigh. He winced but continued walking.

María returned fire. One of the soldiers shot at her and drove her back.

The soldiers fired again. This time the bullet hit closer, just inches from the priest. It kicked up a fresh spray of stone. Norberto jerked toward McCaskey as several shards struck him in the side.

“Are you all right?” McCaskey asked.

Norbert nodded once. But his lips were pressed together and his brow was creased. He was hurting.

Suddenly, there was shouting behind them. It was coming from the direction of the palace.

“El general está muerto!” someone shouted.

McCaskey didn’t need Father Norberto to translate for him. The general was dead — and in a moment they would be, too.

“Come on!” he said, urging the priest forward.

But even as he did so, McCaskey knew they were never going to make it. Other soldiers picked up the cry. There were shouts of rage and disbelief.

Just then there was another sound. The sound of helicopters. McCaskey stopped. He looked to his left, toward the palace. The soldiers also looked over. A moment later six choppers flew over the southern wall. They hovered over the courtyard, blocking the sun and sending out an ear-splitting roar.

It was the sweetest sound McCaskey had ever heard. The sweetest sight McCaskey ever saw was what looked like police sharpshooters leaning from the open doors and aiming CETME assault rifles down at the soldiers.

McCaskey heard sirens along the avenues alongside the palace. Aideen and Striker must have gotten out and given the police enough intel to send in the cavalry — serious business cavalry.

McCaskey started walking again. “Come on, Father,” he said. “They’re on our side.”

The dual air and land approach suggested to McCaskey that the police were waiting for the army to split up like this so they could pin both parts down. That would significantly weaken resistance.

McCaskey and Father Norberto finished crossing the courtyard as the sirens neared and the choppers held the soldiers back. McCaskey ached to embrace María. But in his present condition it would probably cost him his lungs. She was also hurt, and Luis needed attention.

“It’s good to see you again,” María said, smiling. “Did I hear correctly? About Amadori?”

McCaskey nodded as he looked at Luis. The officer was ashen, his breathing very shallow. McCaskey checked the improvised bandage. Then he took off his own shirt and began tearing it into fresh strips.

“Father,” McCaskey said, “we have to get Luis to a hospital. Please — would you flag down a car?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Norberto said.

McCaskey looked toward the street. A police car had pulled up to the curb and four men had gotten out. They were dressed in distinctive dark blue berets, white belts, and spats.

“The Guardia Real,” María said. “The Royal Guard.”

A fifth man got out as well. He was a tall, white-haired gentleman with a proud military bearing. He approached quickly.

“It’s General de la Vega,” McCaskey said. Then he shouted, “We need help here. Luis needs a doctor!”

“_¡Ambulancia!” María added.

The Royal Guard members began running toward them. One of them shouted something to María.

She nodded then turned to McCaskey. “They’re setting up a mobile field hospital in the Plaza de Oriente,” she said. “They’re going to take him there.”

McCaskey looked down at Luis. He finished bandaging the Interpol officer then took his hand and squeezed it hard. “Hold on, partner,” McCaskey said. “Help’s here.”

Luis squeezed back weakly. His eyes remained shut. Father Norberto knelt beside Luis to pray for him. The priest was obviously hurting. It was also obvious that he had no intention of letting that stop him.

A moment later gunfire erupted once again from inside the palace. McCaskey and María exchanged glances.

“Sounds like the government’s playing for keeps,” McCaskey said.

María nodded. “We’re going to lose a lot of good people today. And for what? One man’s insane vision.”

“Or his vanity,” McCaskey said. “I’m never sure which one motivates a dictator more.”

As they spoke, the police arrived. Two men lifted Luis up gently and carried him toward the plaza. The general thanked McCaskey and María for all they had done, then ran after them. The other two Royal Guardsmen stopped and lifted María.

“An honor guard.” She grinned.

McCaskey smiled and rose, assisted by Father Norberto. They walked alongside María as she was carried away. McCaskey felt a knifelike jab with every step he took. But he kept up with the guards. It was rare to get a second chance at anything, whether it was the opportunity to fix a wrong choice at a moment of crisis or to reclaim a lost love. McCaskey had experienced both. He knew what it was like to be tortured by events his indecision or fear or weakness had caused.

If María Corneja would have him, there was no way he intended to lose her again. Not even for a minute. The pain of blowing a second chance would be much, much worse.

María sought and found McCaskey’s hand. A moment later her eyes found his. And at least one pain stopped when it became clear that she felt the same.