Patient Zero

Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

The Liberty Bell Center / Saturday, July 4; 12:14 P.M.

I RAISED MY pistol and put the laser sight on Ollie Brown who had a Glock in his hand though the barrel was pointed down at the floor.

“You fucking bastard,” I said, and slipped my finger inside the trigger guard, but before I could fire a gunshot shattered the air. Ollie gave me a crooked smile and when he opened his mouth blood gushed over his chin. Ollie dropped his pistol and staggered forward and I realized that O’Brien had shot him. The CIA assassin stumbled, dropped to hands and knees, fighting to keep his head raised. He looked up at me, his eyes glazing.

“S sorry ” he said, though his voice was a gurgle. “I I ”

And then he collapsed onto the floor.

O’Brien began to raise his gun toward me.

“Drop the weapon!” I snarled. “Do it now!”

“Or what?” he asked, and suddenly his voice was different, no longer the bland American accent he had used before. Now he sounded British. “What will you do? Shoot me?” He laughed. “What do I care?”

“Say the word,” Top murmured from behind me, “and we’ll waste this shitbag.”

“Drop it,” I warned. “Last chance.”

O’Brien closed his eyes for a moment. He was bathed in sweat and his color was bad. He lowered his pistol and then took a sagging sideways step; but his hand snaked out fast as a cobra and caught the doorframe to keep him from falling.

I took a cautious forward step, my pistol rock-steady, the laser sight tattooed on the front of his muscular chest. The agent shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts, the pistol hung from his hand but he had not dropped it. On the floor I could see Ollie’s fingers open and close slowly. There was a bullet hole in the back of his sports coat from which blood still bubbled sluggishly. I couldn’t have cared less, though. If he was dying, then let him die. Saying that he was sorry didn’t hold much weight for me.

“Drop the gun,” I commanded.

Behind me I could hear Top and Skip moving closer. O’Brien was outnumbered and outgunned.

And still the son of a bitch made a try for it. He raised his head and smiled at me, and I could see that there was something odd about his face. The heavy sweat that soaked his face seemed to be washing the color out of him. His freckles looked like they were melting, and I could see a faint jagged line beneath his skin as if he had a thick scar running diagonally across his face. Was he wearing makeup?

O’Brien looked at me, his eyes going in and out of focus. Then I saw the muscles around his eyes tighten as he suddenly whipped his gun up and screamed: “Allah akbar!”

I shot him twice in the chest.

The impact slammed him back through the doorway and he collapsed into the darkness of the office beyond. He went down hard and I could hear the crunch of elbows, skull, and heels as he struck the linoleum floor.

The moment stretched as a haze of gun smoke washed the air with a faint gray.

All I could see was the soles of his shoes, but after a single twitch he stopped moving. I didn’t trust it, though, and I kept my pistol on him as I moved into the room, crouched and pressed fingers to his throat.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I felt some of the tension leave me and I rose and went back into the main room, but I was frowning. The tips of the fingers I’d used to check his pulse were smeared with color and I sniffed it. I was right: stage makeup.

“Nice shot, boss,” Top said. He lowered his piece but didn’t put it away. He knelt down to check on Ollie, but his face showed his distaste for the effort wasted. “He’s alive. Maybe he’ll live long enough to hang. Traitorous prick.”

Skip was standing behind him, staring past me. He bent and picked up Ollie’s pistol and then retreated to stand beside the First Lady, who was staring in renewed horror.

“Jesus,” Skip breathed, his eyes fixed on O’Brien. “You actually killed him.”

“Yeah,” I said, “that sometimes happens when you shoot someone.”

“Shame you can’t collect the reward,” Skip said.

“What reward?”

He gave me a quirky grin. “For bagging El Mujahid, boss. Last I heard there was a million-dollar reward for him.”

I frowned, puzzled. “The hell are you talking about?”

Skip nodded past me. “O’Brien. He’s El Mujahid. You didn’t figure that out?”

I turned and glanced down at the big corpse, then looked back at Skip. “How the hell do you know that?”

Skip raised both guns. He put the barrel of one against the First Lady’s temple and pointed the other at my face.

“A little bird told me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Son of a bitch.