Rasputin's Shadow

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 time 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.