Black (30 page)

“Then listen to me.” Tom looked at her, then at the attacker. Tears filled his eyes. He looked desperate. “I don't know what's happening to me. I don't want to hurt anyone. I really don't ,you hear me? But we have to stop this man. I mean, no matter what happens, we have to stop him. They're real, Monique. My dreams are real. You have to believe me!”

The man had taken another step toward the door. She answered to calm Tom more than to agree with him. “Yes, okay. I do. Watch him, Thomas! He's going for the jacket.”

“Leave the jacket,” Thomas said.

The man arched an eyebrow. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“This is absurd,” he said. “You think you can actually stop me from doing what I want? You're unarmed.” He casually
reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. The blade snapped open. “I am not. And even if I were, you would have no chance against me.”

“You promise?”

“You want me to—”

“Not you! Her. You believe me, Monique? I need you to believe me.”

His conviction made her hesitate.

“This could end badly, Monique. I really, really need you to understand what's happening here.”

“I believe you,” she said.

The man suddenly lunged for his jacket.

Monique had never seen anyone move as fast as Thomas did then. He didn't jump; he didn't step. He shot, like a bullet. Straight at the floor between the bed and the front door where the jacket lay folded.

He rolled once, sprang to his feet, and hit the black-clad man broadside with the heels of both hands.

Carlos had killed many men with his bare hands. He'd never, in a dozen years of the finest training, seen a man move as fast as the American. If he could get to the transmitter in the jacket, there would be no fight. He was now certain Thomas Hunter would capitulate when faced with the prospect of the French woman's terrible death.

He saw Hunter hit the floor and roll, and he knew precisely what the man intended to do. He even knew that what the man had gained by putting gravity to work in his favor might mean Hunter would reach him before he could reach the jacket. But he had to make a decision, and, all things considered, he decided to finish his attempt for the jacket. It was the only way to avoid a fight that would undoubtedly end in Thomas Hunter's death.

The fact was, he wanted Hunter alive. They needed to learn what else he knew.

The man reached him too quickly. Carlos shifted to accept Hunter's blow. The American hit him on his left arm, hard. But not hard enough to knock him from his feet.

Carlos whipped the knife in his right hand across his body. The blade sliced into flesh. The American dropped to his belly. Rolled over the jacket and came up ready. Blood seeped from cuts in both his forearms.

He flung the jacket across the room. Unfazed. He bounced on the balls of his feet twice and threw himself at the wall adjacent Carlos, feetfirst.

This time he knew the man's trajectory before he could line up his kick. He was going for the knife.

Carlos sidestepped, blocked the man's heel as it came around, and stabbed up with the knife. The blade sank into flesh.

Hunter grunted and twisted his legs against the blade, forcing it out of Carlos's hand. He landed on both feet, blade firmly planted in his right calf. He snatched it out and faced Carlos, blade ready.

The reversal was completely unexpected. Enraging. Enough—he was running out of time.

Carlos feigned to his left, ducked low, and jerked back. As expected, the move drew a quick stab with the knife. Still on his heels, he dropped back to one hand and swung his right foot up with his full strength. His shoe caught Hunter in the wrist. Broke it with a sharp crack. The knife flew across the room.

He followed his right foot with his left to the American's solar plexus.

Hunter staggered back, winded.

The phone rang.

Carlos had taken far too long. His first concern had to be the girl. She was the key to the vaccine. Another ring. The blonde? Or the front desk. Taking the American was no longer an option.

He had to finish this now.

Nausea swept through Tom's gut. The phone was ringing, and it occurred to him that it might be Kara. The ringing seemed to unnerve his attacker slightly, but he wasn't sure it mattered any longer. The man with the face scar was going to take Monique.

Both of Tom's arms were bleeding. His wrist was broken, and his right leg was going numb. The man had disarmed him without breaking a sweat. Panic began to set in.

The man suddenly broke to his left, bounded for Monique. She swung both feet at him in a valiant effort to ward him off.

“Get away from me, you—”

He swatted her feet to one side and scooped up the gun. He turned casually and pointed the weapon at Tom.

Tom's options were gone. It was now simply a matter of survival. He straightened. “You win.”

The gun dipped and bucked in the man's hand. A bullet plowed through Tom's thigh. He staggered back, numbed.

“I always win,” the man said.

“Thomas!” Monique stared in horror. “Thomas!”

“Lie on the bed,” the man ordered.

“Don't hurt her.”

“Shut up and lie on the bed.”

Tom limped forward. His mind was fading already. He wanted to say something, but nothing was coming. Surprisingly, he didn't care what the man did to him now. But there was Kara, and there was Monique, and there was his mother, and they were all going to die.

And there was his father. He wanted to talk to his father.

He heard himself whimper as he fell onto the bed.

Phewt!
A bullet tugged at his gut.

Phewt!
A second punched into his chest.

The room faded.

Black.

Deputy Secretary of State Merton Gains ducked out from under the umbrella and slid into the Lincoln. He'd grown used to the showers since moving to Washington from Arizona. Found them refreshing, actually.

“Boy, it's really coming down,” he said.

George Maloney nodded behind the wheel. “Yes it is, sir.” The Irishman didn't show a hint of emotion. Never did. Gains had given up trying. He was paid to drive and paid to protect.

“Take me to the airport, George. Take me to drier parts of Earth.”

“Yes sir.”

Miranda had insisted on living in their Tucson home for at least the winters, but after two years, the Washington life wore thin, and she found excuses to return home even in the warmer months. Truth be told, Merton would do the same, given a choice. They were both bred in the desert, for the desert. End of story.

Rain splashed unrelentingly on the windows. Traffic was nearly stalled.

“You'll be back on Thursday, sir?”

Gains sighed. “Tucson today, California tomorrow, back on Thursday; that's right.”

His cell phone vibrated in his breast pocket.

“Very well, sir. Maybe this rain will be gone by then.”

Gains withdrew the phone. “I like the rain, George. Keeps things clean. Something we can always use around here, right?”

No smile. “Yes sir.”

He answered the phone. “Gains here.”

“Yes, Mr. Gains, I have a Bob Macklroy on the phone for you. He says it could be important.”

“Put him on, Venice.”

“Here you go.”

At times Washington seemed like a college reunion to Gains. Amazing how many
jobs had ended up in the hands of Princeton graduates since Blair had been elected president. All qualified people, of course; he couldn't complain. He'd done his own share of upping the Princeton quotient, mostly through recommendations. Bob here, for example, was not exactly a Washington insider, but he was working as the assistant secretary in the Bureau for International Narcotics and Law Enforcement Affairs office in part because he had played basketball with now Deputy Secretary of State Merton Gains.

“Hello, Bob.”

“Hi, Merton. Thanks for taking the call.”

“Anytime, man. Tim treating you good down there?”

Bob didn't bother answering the question directly. “He's in SaõPaulo for a few days. We're not sure if you're exactly the right person. This is a bit unusual, and we're not quite sure where to take this. Tim thought the FBI might be—”

“Try me, Bob. What do you have?”

“Well . . .” Bob hesitated.

“Just tell me. And speak up a bit, it's raining hard. Sounds like a train in here.”

“Okay, but it's all very strange. I'm just telling you what I know. It seemed appropriate with your involvement in the Gains Act.”

Gains sat up a bit. This evasiveness wasn't like Bob. Something was up, not only in his voice but in this mention of the narrowly defeated bill Merton had introduced two years earlier when he was a senator. It was up again, with some alterations and his name still attached. The bill would impose strict restrictions on the flood of new vaccines hitting the market by demanding they pass a comprehensive battery of tests. Two years had passed since his youngest daughter, Corina, had died of autoimmune disease after mistakenly being administered a new AIDS vaccine. The FDA had approved the vaccine. Gains had successfully had it barred, but other vaccines were entering the market every month, and the casualties were mounting.

“If you don't spit it out, I'm going to send some muscle over there to force it out of you,” he said. It was something he could say only to a man like Bob, the locker room cutup who'd once owned the best three-point shot in college ball. They all knew Merton Gains would go out of his way to step over an ant if it wandered onto the sidewalk.

“I'll remember to keep my door locked,” Bob said. He sighed. “I got a strange call a couple of days ago from a man who called himself Thomas Hunter. He—”

“The same Thomas Hunter from the situation in Bangkok?” Gains asked. The incident had fallen in his lap earlier today. An American citizen identified as Thomas Hunter from flight records had kidnapped Monique de Raison and another unidentified woman in the lobby of the Sheraton. The French were up in arms, the Thais were demanding intervention, even the stock market had reacted. Raison Pharmaceutical wasn't exactly unknown. The timing couldn't have been worse—they'd just announced their new vaccine.

In Gains's mind, the timing was about right.

“Yes, I think it could be,” Bob said.

“He called you? When?”

“A few days ago. From Denver. He said that the Raison Vaccine would mutate into a deadly virus and wipe out half the world's population. Nut-case stuff.”

Not necessarily. “Okay, so we have a nut case who's managed to wing his way over to Thailand and kidnap the daughter of Jacques de Raison. That much the world already knows. He say anything else?”

“Actually, yes. I didn't think about it until I saw his name today on the wires. Like you said: a nut case, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, he told me that the winner of the Kentucky Derby was Joy Flyer.”