The Insider (36 page)

“You're not going to let me live.”

“Maybe that's true,” Aashif conceded. “But it's going to be much worse if you don't cooperate. My Russian friends tell me that a bullet in the knee is very painful.” Aashif didn't sound as sure of himself as his words suggested. He kept raising the gun to point it at Will, then lowering it again to his side. He looked no more comfortable holding a gun than Will would have.

He guessed that Aashif was alone in San Francisco, separated from the other members of his cell. Why else would he come by himself, when he was so obviously a planner rather than a trained killer?

“What can you hope to accomplish by killing innocent people?” He figured that he could buy some time if he could get Aashif talking.

“I'm not here to engage in a dialogue with you. And why do you assume that those people are innocent? Look at the culture they've created, look at the leaders they've chosen.”

“The world will only see you as murderers.”

“Your world, maybe. But I don't live in your world.” He raised the gun again. “Now, where are the keys?”

“I don't have them here. Why would I carry them around like that?”

Aashif lifted the gun and aimed at Will's knee. Although he was only six feet away, Aashif failed to hold the gun steady, and the bullet missed, ricocheting and striking metal somewhere above them in the rafters.

They were both startled, Will by the realization that his knee was still intact and Aashif by the incredible racket created by the gunshot reverberating off aluminum in the empty space. Unaccustomed to the noise of the shot, Aashif stupidly stared at the gun for a moment as if that were the problem.

Will recognized the opportunity and charged at Aashif, grabbing the hand that was holding the pistol. His momentum knocked them down, with Will on top and still gripping the hand that held the gun.

Will slammed Aashif's fist repeatedly against the concrete floor, but he wouldn't release the gun. With his other hand, Aashif punched at Will's head, but he couldn't get much force behind it.

Will managed to get his finger over the trigger as they struggled. Will squeezed, and a series of shots struck a concrete wall until there were no more bullets and the firing pin just clicked.

Aashif finally managed to get his right hand free and struck Will in the forehead with the barrel of the gun. With his left hand, he punched Will in the windpipe.

Will coughed and struggled to breathe as Aashif got to his feet. Before he could recover, Aashif kicked him hard in the ribs. Then he stepped back and kicked him again in the stomach.

Realizing that he wouldn't be able to remain conscious if he absorbed another blow, Will managed to throw himself forward, tackling Aashif at the knees. Aashif fell backward, and the back of his head struck the concrete hard.

Aashif kicked out to keep Will off him, and his shoe struck him a glancing blow on the cheek. Aashif got up and staggered to the other side of the warehouse.

When Will stood up, Aashif was nowhere to be seen.

Will remained motionless, listening for movement, but there was no sound. He walked slowly toward the opposite end of the warehouse and stepped outside onto the narrow walkway lined with crates where the tugs were docked.

Will still didn't see Aashif. It was hard to hear small movements now over the sound of the wind, the lapping waves, and the creaking of the tugs straining against their moorings. He took one step, then another, until he was halfway down the walkway.

Will leaned over to see if Aashif was crouched on the deck of a tug.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in the front of his left shoulder and a tearing sensation. He was pulled backward and spun around. Will saw that Aashif had been hiding behind a crate and had speared his shoulder with the single curved point of a grappling hook used to secure tugs to the dock.

The pain was paralyzing, and his left arm no longer seemed able to move the way he wanted it to.

Aashif punched Will in the face, and he fell backward onto the wooden walkway. Will lay sprawled, the grappling hook still embedded in the front of his shoulder with the handle resting on his chest.

Standing over Will, Aashif placed his foot on the hook, then slowly put his weight into it. Will felt the hook sink deeper into the flesh of his shoulder. Explosions of red and white filled his vision.

“Tell me,” Aashif said. “Tell me and you can live.”

Groaning, Will sat up a bit, as if he were about to speak. Aashif took a step back. Then Will aimed a kick at Aashif's knee, landing the heel of his shoe squarely on the kneecap. Aashif cried out and dropped to one knee.

While Aashif held his knee in pain, Will managed to stand up. By the time Will was firmly on his feet, Aashif was also standing. Will rushed at him, hoping to shove him off the pier into the water.

Aashif and Will struggled at the edge of the walkway for a moment, and then they both pitched into the dark waters of the bay.

They dropped a few feet, and then the frigid waters closed over them. The shock of the cold and the pull of the current were familiar to Will from his windsurfing days. It allowed him to focus more quickly on what he needed to do.

He kicked to propel himself to the surface, gasping for air as the waves struck him. Aashif was several feet away, still coughing and sputtering.

The grappling hook was still buried in his chest. As carefully as he could under the circumstances, Will removed the long steel hook from his shoulder. A cloud of red appeared around him in the water. He felt like he was about to pass out. Then he saw Aashif swimming toward him, almost upon him.

Aashif reached Will just as he was recovering his breath and placed both hands around his neck, choking him and forcing him down. Even in his weakened state, Will was a strong swimmer, and he managed to push Aashif upward until his back was against a pylon.

They were face-to-face now as Aashif tried to strangle him and stay afloat. Will still had no use of his left hand, but he managed to throw punches with his right, slamming Aashif's head backward into the barnacled pylon. After three blows, Aashif released his grip on Will's throat.

With a useless left arm and dizzy from blood loss, Will knew that he couldn't swim for very much longer, much less fight. While Aashif was still stunned, Will swam away from him and climbed a wooden ladder, hauling himself dripping and exhausted onto the pier.

Will staggered back into the building, hoping to find a weapon. He wasn't going to win a fight with one good arm. Behind him, he heard a wet thud and knew that Aashif had also climbed back onto the pier.

When Will looked behind him, he saw that Aashif was inside the building now. He was frantically examining the contents of a tool bench, also searching for a weapon.

When Aashif turned to face him, he held a hammer. Will scanned the room and saw another tool bench on the wall closest to him.

He thrashed through fast-food bags and old newspapers that littered the workspace. He could hear Aashif's footsteps advancing quickly behind him.

Will's fingers closed around a long Phillips screwdriver. It would have to do.

When he spun around, brandishing the screwdriver, Aashif was only a few feet away. Aashif stopped, and they circled each other looking for an opening, both breathing heavily and dripping wet.

Aashif was not more physically imposing than Will. And he didn't seem to be any more experienced when it came to fighting. The one thing about Aashif that unnerved him was the look in his eye that indicated that he had absolutely no qualms about killing. Will thought that he could kill Aashif if it was a matter of self-defense, but that wasn't the same thing.

Aashif swung the hammer at Will's head, but came up short. Will lunged ineffectually with the screwdriver. He quickly realized that the screwdriver was going to work as a weapon only if he could get in close.

Aashif jabbed at Will with a left. Will blocked the blow easily, but then realized it was a feint and that Aashif was swinging the hammer at him with his right hand.

The hammer struck below Will's damaged left shoulder. He heard ribs crack with a sound like dry branches snapping underfoot. Will didn't feel the pain in his side so much. It was more systemic than that, like a rolling blackout. He felt his knees starting to buckle.

The near-blackout must have lasted no more than a second because when Will regained his senses, Aashif still hadn't managed to pull the hammer back into position for a final blow. He lurched forward into Aashif like a struggling boxer going for a clinch.

They danced about awkwardly for a moment as Aashif tried to push him away and retain his grip on the hammer. With his one good hand, Will landed a punch to Aashif's face, the screwdriver facing away in his fist.

Aashif's eyes widened as he saw Will turn his fist around so that the point of the screwdriver was aimed at him. With the strength he had left, Will plunged it down into Aashif's throat, so that little more than the yellow plastic handle showed.

Blood began to spurt from Aashif's neck. Aashif reached up to gingerly touch the handle of the screwdriver, perhaps hoping that the injury wasn't as grave as it seemed. Then he slowly sat down with his back against an iron support column as the blood continued to flow, but more slowly now. Within two minutes his eyes closed, and he was gone.

Will sat down on the concrete floor, woozy from the adrenaline, blood loss, and exhaustion. He wasn't sure how long he remained like that, but he hoped it wasn't long. He wasn't safe yet, and he needed to remain conscious.

Will wanted to call Jon and tell him everything that had happened, and perhaps come clean to the authorities as well. After all, he had killed Aashif in self-defense. Wouldn't he be considered a hero for stopping the man who was about to launch a massive terrorist attack, including the murder of hundreds of BART commuters?

Will wasn't so sure. If he told the authorities the entire story, several different agencies would all have to accept his claim that he wasn't a willing participant in the Russians' schemes. At best, they would force him to testify against the
mafiya
and enter the witness protection program. His legal career would be over, and the Russians would be trying even harder to find him and kill him before he could take the stand. Will knew what happened to witnesses against the
mafiya
.

Will's calculations were interrupted by a police siren outside. Someone had called in the gunshots. From the sound of the siren, the patrol car was still a block or two away. The police probably didn't know which building the shots had come from.

There was no more time to deliberate.

Will walked onto the pier and threw the gun and the screwdriver far out into the bay. Then he ran out of the building, climbed into his car, and pulled out onto the Embarcadero, careful not to accelerate. Will drove slowly for a couple hundred yards, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, but the police car was not following him.

Will rolled down the windows, letting the cold, damp air in. It cleared his head but seemed to make the pain in his shoulder and ribs worse. As he drove away, he felt an overpoweringly acute awareness of the simple fact that he was alive.

Will threaded his way among the pedestrians on the sidewalk. It was eight A.M. on a mild Tuesday morning, with blue skies and clouds dispensed in roughly equal portions. As he passed a market, he inhaled the extravagant scent of mangoes from a sidewalk table. He had been at his new job for only two weeks, and nothing was routine yet, not even the walk to work. Will passed the ornate, pink stucco wedding cake that was once the El Capitan Theater.

Will walked briskly and felt good to be able to swing his left arm at his side. He'd only recently been able to remove the sling that he had worn for two months.

He turned into the Ixtlán Taquería and ordered a breakfast burrito and a large black coffee. He was greeted by a few cries of “Hey,
abogado
” from behind the kitchen counter, followed by a stream of Spanish spoken far too quickly for him to follow. After one week, they'd identified him as a regular. After two weeks, they'd started teasing him about his crude Spanish.

Bearing a cardboard cup of coffee and a brown paper bag with a rapidly expanding grease stain, Will climbed the stairs next door to the
taquería
. He could hear a Mexican tenor singing a
norteño
folk song from the Spanish-language record company on the first floor. When he entered the Law Offices of Coulter and Connelly, the usual gathering of soft-tissue injuries and neck sprains swiveled stiffly to greet him with expressions that, at least on that day, he interpreted as gratitude.

Ingrid presided contentedly over her domain from the reception desk. Apparently, her waiting room charges were still too sleepy and disorganized to mount any serious challenges to her authority.

“What's on my calendar?”

“You have Mr. Díaz at nine thirty.” Will was drafting a partnership agreement for Roberto Díaz, a successful auto parts dealer who was taking on investors and opening new locations in Sacramento and Diamond Bar.

“Is that it?”

“There's also Mr. Heard at eleven.” Steve Heard, whom he had represented at Reynolds Fincher, was that rarity in the current economy: a high-tech startup entrepreneur. Will was incorporating his new social networking website, which was actually still operating out of a garage. Like faster microchips, hope was a perennial in Silicon Valley.

Will was not as busy as he had been working at Reynolds Fincher, but he found that the slower pace suited him. He had been retained by a few of the clients that he had worked with at his former firm, and almost every day someone new walked in the door with an agreement to be negotiated or a small business to be formed.