Final Vector (28 page)

Of course, neither would he, but he did his best to push that disturbing realization to the back of his mind as he tried to decide how to proceed from here.

Officer Ray Reid rolled slowly down Shoreline Drive in Hull, Massachusetts, on routine patrol. Working the overnight shift for the Hull Police Department wasn't exactly what he had envisioned himself doing after mustering out of the Army, where he had served two tours of duty as an MP in Iraq, but what the hell. At least he had a job, which was more than a lot of guys who had spent time in the godforsaken blast furnace that was the Middle East could say, and as an added bonus he was actually doing what he wanted to do: earning a living in the field of law enforcement.

So even though he would much rather have been sleeping in the arms of his wife, Melissa, getting up in the middle of the night to change their daughter Margaret's diaper for the third or fourth time, Ray wasn't about to complain. He would spend a couple of years building his resume here, then move on to a better job somewhere else, maybe in a bigger town, maybe with the staties, or maybe he would even try to catch on with the FBI or a similar high-profile outfit.

That was all in the future, though. For now, Ray was a small-town cop, and that was good enough for him. For as long as he could remember, his goal had been to serve as a peace officer. As a little boy he had become enthralled with the sharply creased dark blue uniform police officers wore, the shiny black sidearm that dangled on their hips, and the way everyone seemed to treat them with awe and respect and maybe even a little bit of fear.

He was a good cop, too. He didn't push people around and try to intimidate regular citizens like some of the guys he knew, who seemed to be drawn to the job because they wanted the chance to swagger and bust people over the head with their nightsticks. Not that he wouldn't do exactly that if necessary. But Ray wanted to help people, plain and simple. And at six foot three, two hundred sixty pounds, Ray was physically imposing enough that he rarely needed much more than his considerable bulk to convince people that his way was the right way.

The sky was beginning to lighten over the water, gradually changing from pitch-black to a fuzzy gunmetal grey, as he maneuvered his cruiser down the deserted thoroughfare, driving at a speed that was barely faster than a brisk walk. This was one of Ray's favorite places in the world, and he always tried to patrol it close to the end of his shift whenever possible. If he rolled his window down and really listened carefully, he felt he could almost hear the waves lapping against the shore, which was impossible at this distance but still a pleasant thought.

His shift ended in less than two hours. Melissa wouldn't be up yet unless Margaret was being unusually fussy, so there was no reason to rush home. Maybe he would stop at the diner downtown for an omelet before going home to bed, and then there would be no question about being able to sleep. With a full stomach, Ray would be out like a light for hours.

He was trying to decide whether to risk a cup of coffee with his western omelet. Would it keep him awake and defeat the point of eating in the first place? Lost in his reverie, Ray started in surprise as an old Dodge Dakota, dented and caked in mud, barreled out of the marsh and shot onto the road about forty feet ahead of him.

The truck roared off toward the center of Hull, tires squealing and mud flying off the undercarriage as it picked up speed.

Ray blinked, almost unable to believe what he was seeing.

What the hell these idiots had been doing out in the flats at this time of the early morning he didn't know, but it was pretty clear what they were doing now--driving recklessly. He flipped the switch on his dashboard, illuminating the flashing blue light bar on the roof, and goosed the big Police Interceptor engine.

As he sped down Shoreline Drive, Ray radioed dispatch of his location and that he was in pursuit of a speeding truck. It was obvious to him that the people inside the Dakota were trying to run, only pulling to the side of the road when it became clear their vehicle, while perfectly suited for mucking around in the marshy flats, was no match in power or speed for the Hull PD Crown Vic-toria cruiser rapidly gaining on them.

After the truck pulled to the side of the road, emergency hazard lights dutifully flashing, Ray followed procedure, calling the plates in to the dispatcher but being told, as he had known he would, that there would be a delay in getting any information back regarding the Virginia tags on the truck. Sometimes information moved slowly in a small police department.

Ray sighed and stepped out of his cruiser. Moving slowly and with routine caution but not too much concern, he had gotten almost all the way to the truck's window, sticking close to the side of the vehicle to present as small a target as possible in the event something went wrong, when he saw someone lean way out of the window and turn to face him. It was a man, and a wooden smile was plastered on his face as he looked at the approaching officer.

The smile stopped well short of the man's eyes.

Ray instinctively knew that something was very wrong. He hadn't survived two tours in Iraq by wandering blindly into danger, and he stopped in his tracks, freezing a second too late as the driver held out a semiautomatic pistol. As Ray dropped into a crouch and attempted to draw his service weapon, the man twisted around to get a better angle and fired three shots in rapid succession, two of them hitting Ray and slamming him to the cold pavement.

The driver's head disappeared into the vehicle, and seconds later the old Dakota took off again, black smoke rising from its tires, peppering Ray with gravel and dirt. He thought of Iraq and the absurdity of the notion that he had survived that madhouse only to be gunned down in the tiny town of Hull, Massachusetts, where nothing ever happened to anyone, especially not to police officers patrolling the streets in the wee hours of a Sunday morning.

Operating on adrenaline and instinct, not even feeling any pain yet, although he knew that was coming, Ray shielded his face with his hands, protecting it from the worst of the flying debris.

Then he opened fire on the rapidly retreating truck. He knew he was injured, maybe badly, but in those first few moments, he could think of nothing besides returning fire. He grunted in satisfaction as one of his shots blew out the fat left rear tire of the pickup, then watched it careen off the road and back into the marsh from where it had so recently appeared.

The Dakota landed with a loud muddy splash, steam rising instantly from the engine compartment as the hot motor impacted the dirty standing water.

Ray keyed the mike pinned to his collar, advising the dispatcher that he had been shot and needed assistance immediately, all without taking his eyes off the disabled truck.

He was pretty sure he had seen at least one other occupant inside the vehicle besides the driver, and he figured that the men inside would be attempting to flee any second now. Whatever they had been up to, it was serious enough that they were willing to shoot a police officer to facilitate their escape, so they certainly wouldn't be waiting docilely inside their vehicle for even more cops to arrive.

He didn't have to wait long to find out. Both doors in the Dakota flew open at the same time, and a man tumbled out of each. They hit the muddy ground running as fast as possible given the lack of traction, using the bulk of the truck as a barrier so that Ray was unable to manage a clear shot at either of them. This meant they were headed deeper into the marsh and away from the road and their only viable escape route, so after about a hundred feet, both men made a sharp right turn and splashed back toward Shoreline Drive.

By now they were too far away for Ray to have any kind of reasonable expectation of hitting either of them, so he simply held his fire, cursing like the ex-Army grunt he was and feeling weaker by the second. He knew help would arrive soon; Hull was a small town, area wise as well as in terms of population, so it wouldn't take long for John Landry in cruiser two to come screaming up Shoreline Drive. He crawled to the gravel shoulder of the road and waited.

Ray hoped the ambulance wouldn't be too far behind John.

He thought about his beautiful Melissa and little baby Margaret and prayed that Mel wouldn't freak out too badly when she heard he had been shot. Maybe he could get treated at the hospital on an outpatient basis and go home before she ever woke up; she would still be pissed, but at least she wouldn't worry. He pictured her face as he slipped into unconsciousness, the darkness overwhelming him as the dim wail of approaching sirens sounded in the distance.

Brian sat at the head of the fancy table running almost the entire length of the conference room and wondered how badly all of this was going to end. They had killed half a dozen or so people already--he had lost track of the exact number--and by now the total probably included the president, not to mention everyone else aboard the president's airplane. He tried to imagine how many people that might be. Fifteen? Twenty? He didn't know.

Brian knew that Tony had planned an escape, but he had expected all along that they would die in this operation, regardless of how it turned out. It just didn't seem possible to Brian that they could manage to assassinate a sitting U.S. president and still escape with their lives. They were never going to get out of this building, and even if they did, the five of them would be hunted relentlessly until they were all either captured or killed, most likely the latter.

He didn't care about dying. He didn't have anything to live for, anyway. He felt kind of bad about the FBI chick lying on the floor, moaning occasionally as the life slipped out of her, but he couldn't say anything to that bastard Jackie. He knew Jackie didn't care if she lived or died. In fact, he undoubtedly preferred that she die so there would be one less witness to this whole thing. He was probably going to kill her soon anyway.

Hell, Brian figured, Jackie was just one stress-triggering event away from snapping and killing everyone around him. Brian had no difficulty whatsoever picturing Jackie as one of those crazy fuckers who goes into his old high school armed with a couple of automatic rifles, taking out as many people as possible before turning the gun on himself.

But even though Brian knew he was probably not going to make it out of here alive, he still didn't want to tempt fate by suggesting they try to save that tiny young woman bleeding out across the room.

Looking up at Jackie, who was still pacing back and forth, wearing a pathway in the carpet like he thought he was General Patton or something, Brian said, "How long should we wait before calling Tony? It should be all over by now--don't you think?

Shouldn't we be getting the fuck out of Dodge?"

Jackie jumped, almost as if he had forgotten Brian was still in the room.

If that were the case, Brian wished he had not spoken at all, since he had no desire to remind Jackie of his presence. It looked like his partner was pondering the question, like Brian had asked him the meaning of life or his recipe for kung pao chicken or something. Smoke from his cigarette wreathed his head in an indistinct halo, which Brian found ironic because he knew Jackie was about as far removed from an angel as you could get.

"Yeah, probably," he answered and continued pacing.

Brian wondered if Jackie had taken speed or something. It sure looked like he had. Or maybe he had just gone so far around the bend that he couldn't sit still or else the voices in his head would get to him. Brian chuckled, but the sound died in his throat when he saw the black look Jackie leveled at him. For just a second, he had the insane notion that Jackie knew what he was thinking.

Brian reached for the telephone to call Tony, and that was when all hell broke loose.

Nick was more tired than he had ever felt in his entire life. Hell, exhausted was more like it. He wondered if he had suffered nerve damage because his left shoulder throbbed continuously where he had been shot and every now and then sent a sharp zing of tightly focused agony racing down his arm and into his hand. He was freezing and couldn't stop shaking and felt like he might hurl at any moment. Time to proceed.

He was crouched in the tiny space between the thick, circular support pillar and the open door on the east side of the Fishbowl.

Nick had been watching for a few minutes from here, and it was clear that something was going to happen soon. The two terrorists--one seated at the head of the conference table with his back to Nick, the other pacing restlessly--were immersed in a terse conversation.

Nick kept a constant eye on Special Agent Cunningham, who appeared to be unconscious but still clinging to life. She had let out a low moan once or twice, and Nick was actually close enough to her to see her eyelids twitch. It looked like she was dreaming or perhaps trying to wake herself up.

Nick needed to get help in here immediately. The man sitting at the table glanced at her occasionally but was doing nothing to help her, and the other one paid no attention to her at all, not even when she moaned. It was as if she didn't even exist to him.

Nick knew he had zero chance of catching these two terrorists off guard, especially with one of them walking back and forth, turning to face Nick every few seconds. Still, he had to try. What other choice did he have?

He needed a diversion that would buy him the extra second or two he would need to get two accurate shots away--one per terrorist--before he got his head blown off by one of the men. With his left arm and hand useless, Nick was forced to set his gun on the floor to fish out his key ring. He felt terribly exposed while he did so, but he couldn't think of any other reasonable method of creating the diversion he needed.

Reaching into his pocket, Nick withdrew his car keys, careful to keep his fist wrapped around the metal objects so they wouldn't jingle and give his position away. Along with the key to his car, the ring contained two house keys and the key to Lisa's car. The car was now a total loss, impounded by the police following the accident, but Nick had been unable to get rid of the key. It felt like he would be throwing one more piece of his wife away, and he was not prepared to do that.