The Hadrian Memorandum

119

Carlos Branco had seen the Toyota and the tail car suddenly pull over and stop. Had seen Marten and the others jump out and point at White’s Mercedes, then run with the others into the Metro. Had seen the GOEs react as the Mercedes slid to a stop behind them. He knew what was going to happen and got out of there fast, racing the Alfa Romeo past the Metro entrance just as White and the others jumped from the car.

At the top of Rossio Square he stopped and looked back, then called Moyer on his cell phone. There was no time for clandestine meetings or secure phones. Moyer needed to know what was going on right then.

“The wheels have completely come off,” he said. “White has taken down six GOEs in front of the Rossio Metro station and chased Marten, Ryder, and the others into it. There will be more people killed before it’s over. What do you want me to do?”

For the briefest moment Moyer said nothing. Then he spoke, calmly and quietly. “Complete the project.”

There had been no need to reply. Branco simply clicked off and looked at his men. They probably had sixty seconds at best before a GOE SWAT team arrived and closed off everything. They had to get to the Rossio station and inside it before that happened.

Patrice and Irish Jack caught up with White at the bottom of the stairs. They could see Grant hand Marten a rail ticket, and then the two followed Anne and Ryder through the glass-paneled entry gates into the station proper. Beyond them were the trains, and once they reached those and got on, everything would be lost. Moreover, he knew the GOE would respond to the killing of its officers with extreme prejudice and very fast. There was no time to finesse anything.

They moved fast toward the entry gates to the train platforms. “RSO’s got a backpack,” White said quietly, his eyes locked on their targeted foursome. “Anne’s got a big purse. Ryder and Marten are carrying nothing. The photographs and the rest will be with the RSO or Anne. Take them down first and recover the goods. Then take out Ryder. I’m guessing Marten’s still armed with whatever he used to kill Branco’s men. I’ll take him. Whatever happens, don’t let any one of them get on a train. When we’re done, split up and take the next train out. Either direction. We’ll meet at the plane.”

Two steps more and they were at the entry gates. A woman in front of them slid her ticket into a receptacle and went through. White, Patrice and Irish Jack followed, shoved past her, and started after their prey.

“Hey! Você três! Batente!” Hey! You three! Stop! A voice called out in Portuguese.

Irish Jack looked to the side. A uniformed Metro guard was coming toward them. Irish Jack smiled, opened his jacket, and took out the M-4 Colt Commando. The guard’s eyes went wide with fear.

“No!” he yelled and tried to turn away. It was too late. Irish Jack fired a short, silent burst. The guard’s body slammed backward into a wall behind him and dropped to the floor, his blood flung everywhere.

“Go!” White commanded, and they started for the platform area. Somewhere a woman screamed. Commuters watched in horror and puzzlement as the three well-dressed men raced past them.

“Here they come!” Grant yelled and shoved Ryder ahead of him toward a Metro car just entering the station. “Everybody back, please!” he yelled at the crowd of commuters. “Everybody back!”

Marten caught a glimpse of Conor White, then saw Patrice rush forward, an M-4 in his hands, shoving people aside. “Look out!” he yelled and raised the Glock to fire. An elderly couple were right in his sights and he had to step away. By then Patrice was gone in the swell of people on the platform-people who were beginning to panic. They’d heard the woman’s scream and there were men rushing through them with guns.

The train stopped and the doors opened. Travelers started to get off. Grant shoved Ryder through them, the backpack tight under his arm, his finger on the MP5K’s trigger.

Now Marten caught sight of Patrice: He was rushing forward toward Grant and Ryder. Then he saw Irish Jack shoving in from the side. He pushed Anne forward after Grant and Ryder, then swung the Glock at Irish Jack. The mercenary saw him and ducked into the crowd. At the same time, Patrice pulled up, raising the M-4. People shrieked. Grant whirled and lifted the backpack. The MP5K’s red laser dot fell on Patrice’s chest a split second too late. There was a burst of silenced M-4 fire and Grant’s head blew apart, his body twisting around wildly to collapse among horrified passengers.

People ran screaming in every direction, some using cell phones trying to call for help. Marten grabbed Anne and rushed her toward the train, stopping only to pick up Grant’s backpack and press it into her arms. “There’s a machine pistol in there. Stay with Ryder. Get him to the plane.”

“No!” she yelled, her eyes locked on his. Love. Fear. Horror. Everything. Before, in the hospital, it had been a parting with hope and without an end. They both knew that if Marten stayed behind now there was every chance he would be dead within seconds.

“Fuck it, Anne! You know what to do! Get Ryder the hell out of here! Now!”

Their eyes locked for the briefest instant; then she bolted into the car, trying to find Ryder. She saw him in the crush just as the doors closed and the train began to pull out. Through the window she glimpsed Irish Jack rushing toward them through the crowd. Then she saw Marten twenty feet away, the Glock up ready to fire. People shrieked, racing to get out of the way. Then Irish Jack disappeared in the melee and Marten was shoving through people trying to find him.

The train picked up speed. Suddenly Patrice stepped out of nowhere only feet from it, his finger closing on the M-4’s trigger.

“Get down!” Anne yelled and shoved Ryder to the floor as a burst of silent automatic-weapon fire raked the windows, obliterating them. She grabbed the backpack and got up. Patrice was gone. A half-dozen or more people were on the floor. Some were dead, others moving. Ryder was trying to help a blood-splattered woman on the floor next to him. They were nearly to the tunnel. Outside she saw Marten looking for Patrice. He didn’t see Irish Jack move in just feet behind him, his M-4 up, readying to fire. In one motion she turned the backpack and squeezed the MP5K’s trigger. The 9 mm slugs ran across the Irishman’s formidable chest; his body danced in a semicircle, then toppled onto the platform to the screams of the terrified people around him. She turned to look for Marten and saw him. Their eyes met. Then the train was in the tunnel and the station disappeared from view.