The Genesis Plague

21

During her life, many unexpected things had happened to Brooke Thompson with most surprises having fortunately been good ones. The instant realization that someone was trying to kill her, however, certainly ranked first on the undesirable surprises list. The adrenaline shooting through her was like nothing she’d ever sensed — a fight-or-flight response that pushed all her senses to the max and had her heart and lungs pumping triple-time.

Without hesitation, she responded the way her mom had drilled into her head since childhood: ‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘HELP!’

With the snow storm having driven everyone home early, there was no one close by to hear her plea. The nearest pedestrian was almost a block away, strolling blissfully unawares along Huntington Avenue. A big guy in a hooded fleece. She tried again, even louder this time: ‘Heeeelp!’

The guy kept moving.

Both shots seemed to have come from the same trajectory — 10.30 on a clock face. That meant the shooter was somewhere along the path she’d walked from the museum. On all fours and keeping low, she scrambled along the kerb to keep the Corolla between her and the shooter.

A hasty visual survey to the rear and sides was discouraging. Nothing in the vicinity qualified as adequate cover. Even the scant, leafless trees lining the street seemed too skinny. Staying behind the car, however, was a losing proposition.

If she could just see the gunman, orient better …

Brooke pulled off her bright pink cap, then popped her head up over the four inches of snow that covered the Corolla’s hood. Closer than anticipated, the shooter was easy to spot: a thin man wearing a grey overcoat and a black snowcap. She fully expected the face to belong to Agent Thomas Flaherty, but the big ears and aquiline features weren’t his. Across the street, the gunman bounded over the snow berm where her attache case and boots had left a clear trail. He swung a handgun directly at her head and the muzzle flashed white with barely any sound.

As she ducked, the shot glanced the snow on the Corolla’s hood and zipped out perilously close to her scalp.

‘Heeeeeeeeelp!’

In less than five seconds, she guessed, he’d be circling the car to close in for the kill. And there was nothing she could do about it.

When Flaherty saw Dumbo-ears step up his pace and pull out a Glock, he pushed down hard on the Chrysler Concorde’s accelerator. The car fishtailed in the snow before finding traction on a patch of rock salt and shooting forward. The slight delay allowed the agile gunman to corner the museum and fire off two shots that kept the archaeologist pinned down behind her car.

Christ, did he hit her? was all Flaherty could think. Then the guy dashed out in the roadway on Forsyth Avenue and managed a third shot.

‘No, no, no!’

Sliding a wide right on to Forsyth Avenue, Flaherty fought the steering wheel to straighten the car on the slick road. He leaned on the horn and depressed the accelerator again. Now he had Dumbo’s attention. The guy planted himself in the centre of the street at twenty metres, levelled the Glock at the Concorde’s windshield.

Dipping below the dashboard, Flaherty jammed down on the brakes while cutting the wheel hard to the left. The round thwunked into the passenger-side doorframe. The Concorde swung into a sideways skid, but the forward momentum kept it along a direct line for the shooter.

Still low, Flaherty reached for his underarm holster and unsnapped his Beretta.

There was a thump that continued over the car’s rear window, then trunk, that was certainly the gunman. Flaherty immediately popped up and saw the Corolla directly ahead. He braced himself for the impact. The huge Concorde’s bumper clipped the side of the Corolla and the car spun another ninety degrees so that he was now looking at the erratic tyre tracks he’d left in the snow.

The downed gunman was already making a move for his fumbled Glock, his right leg hobbling from the car-jumping stunt.

Flaherty threw open the driver’s-side door, thrust the gun between the V opening and pulled the trigger. The shot wasn’t well aimed, but it forced Dumbo to abandon the Glock and go scrambling for cover behind a concrete construction barricade that cordoned off the sidewalk beside the museum’s new American Wing.

While keeping his eyes on the barricade, Flaherty reached across to the passenger door, pulled the handle, and pushed it open.

‘Brooke, it’s me, Agent Flaherty! Get in the car!’

There was a sickening pause that had him wondering whether Dumbo’s third shot had found its intended target.

‘Brooke! Let’s go!’

Finally, he heard feet crunching through snow. She bounded into the seat beside him then pulled the door shut.

‘Stay down,’ he told her.

After confirming in the rearview mirror that the street behind him was empty, Flaherty pulled his door shut, shifted the car into reverse, and pushed down on the accelerator, spinning the tyres. As soon as the car got moving, he flipped the gun to his left hand, powered down his window, and hung his arm out.

Sure enough, Dumbo jumped out over the barricade and began running at the car. Like every tenacious assassin, he was gripping a backup pistol. Flaherty immediately shot at him. His left-handed aim was lousy, and the assassin sensed it — didn’t break stride or deviate to either side, just kept coming.

‘Damn, he’s fast,’ Flaherty grumbled. He fired again and saw the round spit snow close to the assassin’s feet. He pushed harder on the accelerator, trying like hell to keep the car on a straight line. Another quick glance in the rearview showed that the intersection was directly behind. No time for a three-point turn. Blindly racing into traffic wouldn’t be smart, either. That meant another fancy manoeuvre.

‘Keep down,’ he told Brooke.

Flaherty pulled his left arm in and jerked the wheel all the way to the left while at the same time easing off the gas. With the tyres grabbing nothing but ice and powder, the car initiated a wicked spin. At the ninety-degree mark, he cranked the wheel in the opposite direction and pushed down on the accelerator again. The timing was good, but the result was far from perfect. The car slid more than the 180 degrees he intended, caught the kerb and the snow heaped along it. Luckily, it wasn’t enough to stop the car from moving forward. Anticipating the assassin’s next move, Flaherty ducked low, pulled the wheel slightly to the right and gave it more gas.

The rear window clacked three times in quick succession — one round cutting into the top of the dashboard, one drilling into the aftermarket Bose stereo, and one pounding into the steering wheel an inch above Flaherty’s hand.

Flaherty punched the gas and held the wheel straight. When he poked his head up over the dash, he realized that blind steering had put the car on a collision course with a three-car commuter train plodding along the above-ground median railway — the Green Line. And he realized that if he jammed on the brakes, he’d either sideswipe the train, or be crushed by a huge municipal dump-truck-turned-plough that was heading right for his door with its air horn blaring.

‘Hold on!’ he yelled to Brooke.

He hit the gas harder and cut the wheel sharp left. The car cleared the plough and skidded sideways into the train’s path. The conductor had apparently anticipated what was happening, and brought the train to an abrupt stop, just as the Concorde thudded over the rails and continued a sideways slide into a snow bank.

With no time to think, Flaherty got the car moving again and didn’t look back.