Jeffery Deaver - Watchlist

A guy, one of Chernayev’s BlueWatch operators, had his pistol drawn and was coming at him-his head snapped back and he fell to the ground. Secret Service or marine sharpshooter. Middleton almost wished he’d ditched the Beretta but he’d instinctively tucked it into the back of his belt as he’d stood. Hopefully it wouldn’t be clocked and seen as a threat.

“The controller, Middleton, or she dies.”

Charley screamed as Archer pushed something into her back.

They were ten yards away. Middleton closed the gap to five. Stopped. Held the controller loose in his right hand, visible to Archer.

“You want this?”

“This ends here, you know it.”

“Maybe for me and you,” Middleton replied. “It’s not going to end for her.”

“Maybe not-for her.” Archer gave a flick of his head over his shoulder. “What about your other bitch?”

Middleton followed where Archer motioned. At the top of the stairs that led up to the VIP area, Tesla gasping for breath, a stream of bright red ran out of the corner of her mouth, her face sunken and tired. She’d been trampled by the crowd.

“Let them both go, Archer,” Middleton said, turning back. “Only deal you’re gonna get. You think you can draw down on me and not get taken out by a sniper, go for it.”

Sixty marines in full battle dress ran flat out in double-file, carving a path through the middle of the mass exodus.

Chang had a hand on the back of Carson’s belt, as instructed, and he didn’t argue or question when she peeled off from the stream of marines and ran up the stairs to the VIP area to their left.

“The only way this ends, Archer. You let my daughter and my colleague go. You give them time to leave.”

Archer almost smiled. Charley winced as he shifted his grip and his warm blood pumped across her neck.

“The detonator, on the ground, and I let them run for thirty seconds,” Archer said. “There’s a clear path behind me, into the dam’s maintenance area. They’ll be spared from the blast.”

Middleton knew he had no choice but to go along, even though Charley’s eyes said no.

“Twenty-five seconds.”

He scanned right-Marine One was coming in to land. He thought of Lespasse and Wetherby, two fallen comrades. He thought of Charley’s mother. He thought of all those who left too early, who were taken by greedy men. This was what he’d formed the Volunteers to prevent.

“Twenty. Leave it longer and they won’t make it.”

Middleton looked around again-spotted a familiar face: Chernayev was coming behind him.

“OK,” Middleton said. He held his hand out and put the remote detonator on the ground, a few paces from Archer. He let Charley go, shoving her toward Tesla, who was doing her best to hurry down the stairs.

“Run!” Middleton yelled at them. “Run!”

Tesla grabbed Charley by the arm. With all her remaining strength, she dragged her away, pulled her in a run toward the safety of the dam’s reinforced concrete.

The crowd had broken through the barrier and the line of security at the landing area of Marine One. Still several thousand people were jostling for a chance to escape the amphitheatre, hundreds of them taking this new route.

Secret Service were forced to keep the president behind the bullet-proof glass screen, some two hundred yards off their now-busy evac site. Marine One stayed on station, hovering directly above its LZ. They all donned gas masks, even the president and his bodyguards.

Archer squatted to the ground, revealed he had a small pistol, picked up the remote in the same hand, nursing his mangled hand across his chest the whole time. Looked at the little plastic box. Smiled. Content. Flipped the cover off the switch. He thought of that place his father had told him about, a little town of pedigree goat herders in Kashmir where Pashmina came from. Alexander’s caravan was said to have passed through there almost two and a half thousand years ago and the people there still have evidence of that today, with sandy hair and ruddy cheeks and blue eyes. Since a young boy he’d longed to see it-maybe death would bring him there. Suffering has its joyous side, despair has its gentleness and death has a meaning. Every death.

Hovering above the crowd, the side door of Marine One opened, an agent leaned out, fired three CS rounds directly below onto the LZ. The 40mm grenades from the M32 launcher took less than half a second to hit the ground fifty yards below. The tear gas had an immediate effect.

“No!” Chernayev shouted through a screen of running people.

Archer pressed the detonator.

Middleton closed his eyes. He thought of Charley.

Nothing happened.

Middleton opened his eyes. Archer looked at the remote, incredulous. He tucked the pistol into his belt, pressed the button again. Nothing. Again.

Again.

“Nice try, Archer,” Carson said.

She came down the stairs with Chang, who held up the POLENA handset that was wired to his backpack.

“He jammed the signal,” Middleton said. He’d seen Connie Carson and Chang in the brush nearby, signaling to him that it was all right to give up the remote control. Saving him from the very difficult decision: his daughter or the president.

Chang nodded, looked worn-out and relieved, like he might faint with the passing of the adrenalin. For all his advanced computer and science degrees and language skills that had aided the Volunteers from the comfort of his desk in D.C., never was a sight so welcome in the field as this slightly built Taiwanese-American before him.

“First, I thought they might be using a garage-door opener, but then I realized that the Secret Service must be wise to that sort of thing, from all the IEDs and stuff in Iraq,” he said, holding up his handset. He was taking comfort in tech-speak. “So I barrage jammed all frequencies as soon as the marines dropped us off.”

Middleton smiled, looked to Archer, who was now standing up, pistol still tucked in his belt, radio detonator in his useful hand. His eyes were darting around, then he seemed to relax.

“Nice work, Wiki.”

“No problem, boss,” Chang replied. He looked over at the commotion of Marine One hovering to land, the bubble of security protecting the president. “Holy crap,” he said, “it really is the president…

“And for the record,” Chang added, “there was no heavy water. The copper bracelet referred to the organization.”

“Yeah,” Middleton said. “I figured that one out too.”

He saw Chernayev approaching, a couple of his security guys with him. Looked like this was working out as a victory after all.

“Hacked into Bicchu, that search engine?” Chang said. “And you’ll never guess who it’s owned by-Hey!”

Middleton turned. He saw Wiki Chang on the ground, rubbing his jaw.

Chernayev had taken the backpack jammer from him. Walked over to Archer, flicking switches on the handset as he went.

“Owned by one of my corporations,” Chernayev said. He dumped the jammer by Archer’s feet and took the detonator from him. As a dozen heavily armed BlueWatch security men pushed onto the grounds, he glanced down at the younger man. “This should work now. Almost time…”

“And I’ll see your hands please, Colonel Middleton.”

POTUS was being ushered to his helicopter. A hundred and fifty yard dash. The marines were at the LZ now, a wall of 100 percent pure American muscle to keep the crowd away from the raised landing area. The gun-ships were close in too, their immense sound adding to the message to those below: this is not the way out. The press corps kept their cameras trained on the LZ, waiting for the money-shot of a gasmask-wearing president to headline the news services.

Middleton’s world was spinning.