Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“She’s changed direction!” the observer said urgently. “Made a left on Massachusetts … now she’s hailing a cab, going toward Union …”

“Surely it’s not a train,” said Cowley. He looked toward Osnan. “We still got people there?”

“Withdrew them to the White House,” the other man replied.

“Get them back,” said Cowley. He was sweating but dry-throated.

“Windows,” Pamela said quietly. “The Capitol’s got windows. Hundreds of them. And it’s as easy to reach down Massachusetts as the railroad terminal. And a far more dramatic target.”

“She’s getting out at North Capitol …” said Osnan, maintaining the commentary. “ … going away from Union Station … Jesus! She’s taken a park bench on Louisiana … sitting there, waiting.”

“Let’s go!” said Cowley. “Keep the White House covered. Move one SWAT team up to Union forecourt …. Tell our guys with her not to approach. We want the brothers …. Talk to me in the car before moving, even if they arrive.” Both Schnecker and Pamela moved with him. Cowley paused momentarily, then continued on with both of them following.

Orlenko: You should have called.

Leanov: I wanted to surprise you.

Orlenko: You have.

Leanov: I surprised Gavri, too.

Orlenko: Where is he?

Leanov: In a wood, with a bullet through the mouth for not telling the truth.

Orlenko: Yevgenni, I want to say-

Leanov: You haven’t told the truth either, have you, Arseni?

Orlenko: Gavri said-

Leanov: That we could be cut out in Moscow? I know. He told me he was sorry about that. And he was, in the end. Are you sorry, Arseni?

Orlenko: Yevgenni, I want to explain.

Leanov: You don’t have to, Arseni. I know all about it now from Gavri. You’re superfluous now, just like Gavri.

The crash of intrusion thundered onto the tape and a megaphoned voice echoed: “Down! FBI! Down on the floor! Down!”

Cowley drove. Pennsylvania Avenue was arrowlike ahead of them, rising up the hill to the domed seat of government.

Pamela said, “Anyone see anything that looks like a maroon Land Cruiser?”

“Too far to see,” dismissed Cowley.

“The missile will misfire, but if they’re Special Forces they’ll have a lot more besides,” said Schnecker.

“We’re armed,” said Pamela.

“Body armor?”

“No.”

“What about the guys who followed her?”

“I doubt it.”

“We’re going after guys trained for any reversal. There’ll be a lot of casualties. Wait for the SWAT team,” urged Schnecker.

The traffic was slow moving. Cowley beat his hands against the wheel in frustration.

Pamela said, “Capitol security should be warned.”

“They’d try to intervene, become casualties,” rejected Cowley.

“That’s wrong, Bill! That’s not a decision you can make.”

“They’d fuck it up.”

“You going to take the responsibility for that?”

“I’m not asking you to-not endangering your career.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, and it was a cheap shot!”

Cowley hammered the wheel again. “Any sign of a Land Cruiser? Of anything?”

“Negative,” Osnan crackled into the car. “Manhattan has got Orlenko and Leanov. Where are you?”

“Third,” reported Pamela.

“SWAT team is behind you,” said Osnan. “They say to wait.”

“I’ll tell the Barrymores that,” said Cowley.

They finally came to a complete halt.

“Shit!” said Cowley. He pulled out, then made a tight left across the horn-protesting traffic line, forcing his way through the downward flow to go up 2nd Street and out on to Louisiana. As he did so Pamela ducked out of sight behind the dashboard.

Osnan said, “Our guys have made a maroon Toyota Land Cruiser moving down from Union Station!”

“Got it!” responded Cowley.

The vehicle was already parked, two men in fatigues walking away across Taft Park. They were close together, with what had to be the missile between them, draped in a tan tarp with a makeshift rope handle. Without any recognition between them Bella Atkins was walking parallel with the road, easing herself into the driver’s seat of the Land Cruiser.

Cowley dragged on an FBI armband and spoke into Pamela’s cell phone. “Everyone identified. Go in to my command. NOW!”

Cowley emerged bent, running, Colt.45 muzzle upward with the safety still on. He was aware of the two agents from the pursuit vehicle seemingly a long way to his left. He was almost at the Land Cruiser before Bella turned. Immediately she slammed her hand flat on the horn. Her two brothers turned.

Cowley shouted, “Put it down! Go down! Down! FBI!”

He knew they wouldn’t have heard over the sound of the horn. It stopped abruptly as the woman fumbled beside her. He wasn’t aware of Pamela until she appeared beside him, her gun outstretched in both hands. She fired, intentionally sideways, blowing out the rear passenger window. That momentarily halted Bella, who was still swinging a MAC 10 machine pistol across when Pamela jammed her gun into the side of the woman’s head so hard the skin broke.

“LET IT GO! YOU DON’T LET IT GO, BELLA, I’LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF! NOW!”

Just as loudly Cowley shouted again for the two men to drop the missile. They did, but not to obey. Their movements were practically choreographed, in perfect unison. One discarded the tarpaulin while the other smoothly took up the missile and its launcher and came up with it into a kneeling launch position. The first snatched another MAC 10 from inside their improvised carrying case as one of the FBI men who had followed Bella yelled something Cowley didn’t hear. The man with the pistol responded to the sound, scything the weapon crossways on automatic, virtually cutting both running agents in half. He continued the sweep toward the Land Cruiser.

“Down!” screamed Cowley.

He felt himself hit, from his left, and couldn’t stop himself falling. He landed on his side, his head protruding beyond the front wheel. A woman was screaming, but it wasn’t Pamela’s voice. Cowley had a perfect view of the two men in the middle of the park, as one of them had a head-and-shoulders view of him and began to aim the rapid fire weapon. Cowley tried to get his own gun up from under him but knew he wouldn’t be in time. Something was heavy, unmoving, beneath his feet, stopping him from crawling back. He tried to lever himself up, to get behind the vehicle, but then there was a blinding eruption of yellow fire and he saw the flame-out of the missile launch engulf the intended protective shield and then the man’s head behind it. There must have been a scream, because the second man turned in time to see what Cowley and Pamela were seeing, the brief unreal moment when a man remained totally upright but completely without a head before toppling backward.

From somewhere farther along the cruiser, Schnecker said, “We switched the heat shield. Put highly flammable plastic in its place.”

Cowley was up, using the hood of the car to steady his gun arm. As the man swung the pistol back toward them, Cowley fired, missed, and hit the second time, spinning the man back on top of the corpse. The wounded man rolled as he fell, keeping hold of the gun. Cowley stopped running toward him, firing and hitting again.

The man was still trying to move when Cowley reached him, kicking the MAC 10 away from the scrabbling hand. Cowley said, “You make a move for anything you might be carrying and I promise to God I’ll kill you. Your war’s over, asshole. You lost.”