David Morrell - The naked edge

"And who were some of the other operators he worked with?" Kim drew a finger down a list. "Shit," she suddenly said.

"What?"

"Ali," Kim said. "Ali was the team leader when the tycoon was assassinated. That was before Ali got promoted to running our personnel department."

"That's not the only time Ali worked with Duran," Jamie said. "Here." She pointed toward the middle of a page. "And here." She pointed toward the top of another.

"And here," Kim said. "Duran and Ali worked together on several long assignments."

"The tycoon was hit by a rifle bullet that went through a window in his hotel suite," Jamie said, reading. "Ali was in the room with him, and then Duran hurried in from standing watch outside the suite."

"When an assignment ends that badly, we send an investigator to learn from our mistakes," Kim said. "The report concluded that nobody was at fault."

"Who ran the investigation?"

All three read the summary of the incident.

"Gerald Brockman," they said at once.

"Okay, okay, let's not jump to conclusions." Cavanaugh stared at the page. "These could all be coincidences. It doesn't mean something's wrong."

"Who else was on the team?" Kim asked. "Is there anyone we can ask who'll either confirm Brockman's report or insist it was a cover-up?"

"Four of them." Cavanaugh scanned the names, his stomach sinking as he read each of them. "Most are dead."

"What?" Jamie asked.

"Over the years, they-"

"Not most of them," Kim said. "I recognize these names. Leaving out Gerald, Ali, and Carl Duran, all the operators on that team are dead."

Kim hurried to the computer, set down the page she held, and typed names that were on it. She stared at the monitor. "One was shot on an assignment. The others… car crash, scuba accident, altitude sickness while climbing…"

"Mt. Everest," Cavanaugh said. "I was invited on that expedition. A job kept me from going. Carl went, though."

"Guy gets around," Jamie said.

"But if Carl was involved in a cover-up that Gerald and Ali were part of, Carl would never have allowed GPS to fire him," Cavanaugh said. "He'd have put so much pressure on Gerald and Ali, blackmailing them, that they'd have persuaded Duncan to let him stay."

"Good point." Kim scratched her arms.

"Are you okay?" Jamie asked.

"Couldn't be better." Kim's brow was beaded with sweat.

"Right. If you need it, chew more Oxy. This isn't the time to make another attempt at withdrawing."

"Just a little longer," Kim said. "When Duran was fired, Gerald was Duncan's second-in-command. He had the authority to stop Duran from being dismissed."

"But since Gerald didn't intervene, that suggests Carl didn't have any way to blackmail him," Jamie pointed out. "That leaves Ali. When was he promoted to running the personnel division?"

Kim's fingers tapped the keyboard. "A year after Duran was fired."

"He couldn't have suddenly demanded that Carl be rehired," Cavanaugh said. "It would have looked suspicious."

"But if Ali couldn't get Duran rehired, how else could Ali have been useful to him?"

"By giving Carl information about GPS assignments. We-"

A noise made Cavanaugh pause.

"What's the matter?" Jamie asked.

Cavanaugh glanced from the bedroom toward the front door.

The noise was repeated.

"Get down!"

The lock and the hinges disintegrated, presumably from thermite cord. As the front door crashed inward, three men charged in, firing muffled automatic rifles.

In the bedroom, Cavanaugh grabbed Jamie and dove to the floor. Chunks of the wall erupted. He and Jamie drew their pistols, but before they could shoot, the gunmen veered out of sight. Kim astonished him by squirming across and slamming the bedroom door, locking it.

"Stay down, Kim! They'll shoot through the door!"

"It's metal!

With a ringing echo, the bullets struck the door but didn't come through.

The shooters returned their aim to the wall, firing holes in it, their sound-suppressed weapons no louder than sewing machines. Given enough time, they could level a portion of the wall and step through to finish their job. But they didn't have time. They counted on surprise and massive firepower to give them the advantage. Now they had another obstacle to overcome, and despite their muffled weapons, the din of bullets bursting through walls would alarm the neighbors. Cavanaugh prayed that someone would phone the police, that sirens would converge on the building. The shooters would worry about that. They would soon need to run.

The sudden silence in the living room supported his logic. They were leaving.

No. He was wrong. He heard a noise against the hinges and locks on the metal door.

"They're using thermite cord on this door also!"

Cavanaugh fired three times at the wall, not expecting to hit the attackers but wanting to make noise, hoping to panic neighbors into calling 911.

"Let's go!" He hurried toward the bedroom window, shoved it upward, and stared at a fire escape he'd noticed earlier when he'd closed the draperies.

Waving Jamie and Kim through, he squirmed to follow.

A dark, narrow alley was three stories down. A brick wall across from Kim's apartment had prevented the shooters from establishing a sniper's post.

"Faster!" Cavanaugh yelled, hearing Jamie and Kim scramble down ahead of him. The clang of their impact on the next landing was followed by the crash of Kim's bedroom door falling inward.

They realize we've gone, Cavanaugh thought. They used all their time. They need to run before the police arrive.

To assure himself, Cavanaugh spun and peered up, dismayed to see a face and a rifle barrel at the open window. The slots of the fire escape deflected the gunman's bullets, the ricochets loud in the confines of the alley.

"Go, go, go!" he yelled to Jamie and Kim.

He heard Jamie's desperate breathing as she surged down ahead of him. Kim's martial arts training allowed her to vault the railing, dangle from the bottom of the platform, and drop to the next landing. Cavanaugh rushed down next to her, seeing her straighten, an expression of pain tightening her face.

He stared up. The face was gone from the window.

We're two floors below them, he thought. But there might be other gunmen on the street. We don't know what we'll be running into.

He noticed that the windows next to him were dark.

"Look away! Protect your eyes!" he warned Jamie and Kim.

He kicked the window, glass flying.

Jamie reached through, freeing the lock, raising the window.

"Go!" he urged.

He crawled in after her. As glass crunched under his shoes, Kim gripped the inside of the window frame and swung in behind them.

Eyes adjusting to the dark, Cavanaugh hurried from a kitchen into a living room, put his ear against the door, heard footsteps thundering down stairs, unlocked the door, yanked it open, and slammed against a man with a rifle who tried to charge past. The impact knocked the man's breath out. A railing snapped when he struck it. As the man dropped his rifle and almost plummeted into the stairwell, Cavanaugh grabbed him, dragged him back, and gripped him in a restraining hold. Leverage pried Cavanaugh's gun from his hand.

Abruptly, more thundering footsteps made Cavanaugh spin toward where the stairs led upward. A second gunman charged into view. As the man raised his rifle, he lurched back, his eyes going blank, Jamie's bullets-two to the chest, one to the head-dropping him.

At the end of the landing, a door opened, an elderly woman peering out.

"Stay inside!" Cavanaugh shouted, struggling to keep the man in a restraining hold. "Call the police! Where's the third man?" Cavanaugh yelled to Jamie and Kim.

"There!" Kim shouted, pointing downward.