SecondWorld (16 page)

When Adler pronounced “something” as “somesing,” Miller tensed. He wasn’t sure if he could ever hear a German accent again without feeling threatened. Ignoring her accent as best he could, he listened to her story.

“Something about the iron.”

“The attacks.”

She nodded. “I took it to the local Interpol chief. After he saw it, he—” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “He tried to kill me.”

She brushed her hair away from her face and neck. There was a cut just below the hairline on her forehead, but it was the ring of bruising around her neck that held his attention. Someone had damn near squeezed the life out of her.

“I got his gun. Hit him in the head. Here,” she said, rubbing her temple.

“He fell on you?”

She pursed her lips. “I thought I would die beneath him.”

“But you didn’t. You got away. And … you came here.”

With a sniff, she said, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“The chief was on the phone when I entered his office, finishing a conversation and taking notes. Before he hung up, he said, ‘I’ll get word to the others. We’ll find him and take care of the problem.’” Adler pulled herself up and sat on the edge of the cushionless couch. “After I knocked him out, I looked at the note.” She reached into her pocket and took out a folded slip of paper. She handed it to him.

Miller opened the paper and saw just two handwritten words:
Lincoln Miller.

“I had seen you on TV. After everything you’d been through, I knew they weren’t looking for you to congratulate you. I wanted to find you first. The hospital said you’d left, so I came here. I thought I could trust you.”

Miller shook his head. “You and everyone else.”

“What?”

“Never mind. How did you find me?”

“I have contacts with the FBI and D.C. police. It wasn’t hard.”

“Okay. But what were you looking for? Why did you toss my—” A warning Klaxon sounded loud in Miller’s gut. He stood and raised his gun toward the empty apartment. “You didn’t toss the apartment, did you?”

“No, why would—”

Miller held an open palm up. “Shh!”

Leading with the gun, Miller moved from the living room to the kitchen. The place wasn’t big, but there were a few nooks and crannies that would make great hiding places, one of which contained some weapons he thought might come in handy.

“What are you doing?” Adler whispered. She was a few steps behind him, clutching her purse to her chest. “There’s no one here. I checked.”

“Whoever did this was searching for something. I—”

“What where they searching for?”

That was the million-dollar question. To his knowledge, Miller had nothing to hide, and certainly nothing to find. So if they weren’t searching for something, what were they—

“Shit,” Miller said, turning his attention to the open apartment door.

“What?”

“It’s a distraction.”

“For what?”

The answer came a moment later. Glass shattered in the living room. Miller spun, expecting to see someone swinging through the window. What he saw was much smaller, and much more deadly. The grenade bounced off the couch and rolled into the center of the living room. It wasn’t a smoke or flashbang, either. This was the real deal—a frag grenade that would shred their bodies to pieces. Whoever had thrown it through the window had no intention of capturing them alive.

23

Miller turned to Adler and was surprised to see her moving fast in his direction. Her open hands struck him hard in the chest and shoved him into the open bathroom. Miller saw where they were headed, spun around, and ran. He dove into the tub as Adler leapt atop him. The impact of striking the tub hurt like hell, but when the grenade exploded, they survived without injury.

Ignoring the loud ringing in his ears, Miller jumped up and pulled Adler to her feet. “Good reflexes for a liaison,” he said.

She shrugged. “I played a lot of sports.”

Good,
he thought,
she’s not falling apart.
Even soldiers sometimes check out when things start exploding. Adler was wide-eyed, but thinking clearly and still mobile. Knowing they most likely had just seconds, he yanked her out of the bathroom and into the hall. The living room lay in ruins. A three-foot-round hole had been blown through the floor into the apartment below.

Miller ran for the hole. There were two exits from his apartment—the main entrance and the fire escape. The metallic clang of footfalls on the fire escape were impossible to mistake. The shouts rising up the stairwell meant both exits were covered. That left them only one option.

“Into the hole,” he said.

To his surprise and relief, Adler didn’t question the order. She sat on the floor, dangled her legs into the hole, and scooted over the edge. He watched her land far more gracefully than he thought he would manage. When she stepped out of the way he noticed she was still holding on to her purse.

But there was no time to think about why the purse was so important. Red dots bounced on the hallway wall outside his apartment. The men coming up to greet him had weapons with laser sights. He took aim, waiting for the first man to show himself. Miller was outmanned and outgunned, but a single shot could stop an enemy cold. Precision often achieved the same level of shock and awe as brute strength.

When the first man’s black-masked head rose into view, Miller squeezed off a single shot. The man toppled forward and dropped from view, leaving a splash of red on the opposite wall.

“Shit!” shouted a voice from the hallway. “Tango is down! Viper Two, Viper Two, target is alive and armed. Proceed with caution.”

Miller’s gut twisted. Everything about the attack screamed U.S. military.

“Copy that,” came a voice from the back window of the kitchen.

As Miller spun toward the window and took aim, he heard the same voice shout, “Shit!” He squeezed off two more shots. He couldn’t see who was outside the window, he just didn’t want anyone to see his escape route. He knelt, fired another shot into the hallway, and then dropped through the floor.

Miller attempted to roll, but his body, already battered, resisted. With the wind knocked out of him, he fought to his feet.

“No one’s here,” Adler whispered, urging him on with her hands.

Something hard rattled across the floor of his apartment above them.

“Down!” Miller said, covering his ears as he curled into a ball.

The explosion was loud, but dulled by the floor above them. It was also far less violent than the first. A flashbang. But he knew what would come next. The assault team wouldn’t take chances, and they had no reason to hold their fire.

“Ready to run?” he asked Adler.

She stabbed a finger to the second-floor apartment’s exit. “Out there?”

“They think we’re still on the third floor.”

He sensed the argument would continue, but when the rapid-fire staccato of four assault rifles roared from above, she opened the door and dashed into the hallway. If they survived this, they would need to have a serious talk about tactics. He chased her out the door and was glad to see the stairwell leading up to his floor now empty. But that didn’t mean they’d left the front door unguarded.

He managed to grab Adler’s arm before she hit the last set of stairs and yanked her back. He held a finger to his lips. She instantly understood and moved so he could pass.

Leading with the Glock, he leapt into the stairwell and took aim at the man standing at the bottom of the stairs. But he held his fire.

Brodeur, gun in hand, saw him coming, and Miller’s gun pointed at his face. “Miller, what in all hell happened?” He saw Adler. “Who’s that?”

A red dot streaked across Miller’s arm and danced on his chest. He saw it and dove to the side, shouting, “Look out!”

Brodeur dove to the side, but crossed through the line of fire when he did. The red dot appeared on his back. A moment later, two holes appeared. Brodeur hit the floor without a sound, his body motionless. Miller bounced back into the open doorway, aiming for where he’d seen the two muzzle flashes across the street. He fired twice and saw the man drop.

Echoing footsteps pounded down the steps above them. The hit squad had either figured out the apartment was empty or heard the gunshots below. Either way, they were coming. The Glock 17 still held eleven rounds, but he had no idea how many men were coming down the stairs, how many were in the back, or if they’d lob another grenade. After quickly glancing at Brodeur and seeing two holes in the center of his back, Miller grabbed Adler and yanked her out of the apartment building.

“Where’s your car?” Miller asked as they ran down the hard granite stairs.

“This way!” She ran down the street while pulling her keys from her pocket. She pointed the keys out in front of her. A honk came from one of the cars parallel parked on his side of the street.

“You drive,” he shouted.

When Adler cut into the street in front of a tough-looking SUV, Miller felt a flash of hope. But she continued past it, opened the door to a pint-sized blue Mini Cooper, and threw her purse in the backseat.

“Europeans and your tiny cars,” Miller grumbled before climbing into the passenger’s seat. He didn’t know exactly what kind of weapons the men carried, but there wasn’t an assault rifle, or handgun for that matter, in the world that couldn’t tear this car to bits.

The small engine purred instead of roared, but Adler worked the car like a pro, throwing it into gear and peeling out and around the SUV. She hammered the gas and tore down the street—straight back past his apartment building. A line of parked cars and the occasional maple tree would help shield them, but when five members of the assault team emerged, dressed in all black and carrying M4 carbine assault rifles, Miller knew they’d need a little more help. With the butt of the Glock, Miller smashed the passenger’s window, took aim, and fired a volley of five rounds. The first struck a man’s leg, toppling him down the stairs. The rest of the men dove for cover while the Cooper shot away.

Miller sat back in the seat and looked at Adler. She was focused on the road, emotions held at bay for the moment, which was a gift not many people possessed. They’d both be a mess when the adrenaline wore off, but the woman had a dormant fighter at her core. “Turn right.”

She did.

“Know how to get to the highway from here?” The question triggered Miller’s memory. He’d asked Arwen the same question back in Miami. This time he got a nod. Miller watched Adler drive. She had the same blond hair, blue eyes, and determination as Arwen, though her face was more angular, more—

Adler noted his attention and glanced at him. “What?”

He cleared his throat and brushed the broken glass from his leg. “How much cash do you have on you?”

The question caught her off guard for a moment. “Uh, I— Nine hundred dollars.”

She saw the look of surprise on Miller’s face, and she added, “I thought if people at Interpol were a part of the attacks, then maybe other agencies were, too, and I could be tracked through my cards. I went to three ATMs.”

A fighter
and
smart,
Miller thought. “Good thinking. When we reach Ninety-five, head north into Pennsylvania. We’ll get a room there.”

Miller leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Adler asked, sounding incredulous. “Taking a nap?”

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“About making a phone call.” Miller opened his eyes and removed the president’s iPhone from his pocket. A single number had been preprogrammed into the phone. He selected it and tapped the Call button.

24

The phone rang only once before Bensson answered. “You should be sleeping.”

“No longer an option,” Miller replied.

“What happened?” Bensson asked, getting straight to the point.

Miller gave him the short version of the story. “Special Ops squad took a shot at me. They missed.”