David Morrell - The naked edge

"Because of your friend."

"Former friend," Cavanaugh said. "He's capable of anything."

"And you aren't capable of anything? Such as stopping him?"

"It doesn't make sense to risk-"

"You think this is about money, don't you?" Yamato asked.

Cavanaugh didn't reply.

"About multi-national industries and power," the official continued. "Or pride? Do you think this is about pride? Six months ago, the demonstrators forced us into a premature conclusion of a conference. Now we refuse to be humiliated again. Is that what you believe?"

"That's one of the theories I've heard," Cavanaugh said.

"This isn't about wealth or power or pride. This is about survival."

Cavanaugh leaned forward, listening closely as more sirens wailed outside in the darkness.

"And this isn't about demonstrations as a voice in a debate," Yamato said. "If you're right, your former friend wants to extend the rioting into something far more extreme."

"The only motive that makes sense to me is that he's being paid by terrorists."

"Whose purpose, by definition, is to destroy the underpinnings of our system."

"That's right."

"If we allow them to intimidate us, if we run and hide, we surrender to that intimidation. Eventually, it becomes easier to continue running and hiding. If we don't resist at every opportunity, we can never win. Am I afraid? Yes. Do I believe people will die tomorrow? Yes. Perhaps I myself will die. But if there's an atrocity, perhaps public outrage against the terrorists will make it less likely that future atrocities will occur. You fight in one way. We fight in another. I cannot recommend canceling or moving the conference."

"I admire your bravery," Cavanaugh said, "but-"

"It's not bravery," Yamato told him. "It's the refusal to act like a coward."

An alarm suddenly blared.

Shrill. Ear-torturing. Outside the suite.

Cavanaugh and Yamato swung toward the door.

Someone pounded on the door. "Mr. Yamato!"

Cavanaugh drew his pistol.

"Mr. Yamato!" a voice yelled. "Cavanaugh!"

Through doors on each side of the suite, Japanese protectors rushed in from adjacent rooms. They held pistols. Cavanaugh took for granted that they'd been electronically monitoring the conversation and knew that he wasn't a threat. Stepping in front of the trade minister, shielding him, they directed their fierce attention toward the main door as the alarm kept blaring and the pounding persisted. Next to it, a television camera revealed the corridor outside and a security agent yelling Mr. Yamato's name.

Cavanaugh hurried to the door, glanced back at Yamato's protectors, got a nod of agreement from them, and freed the lock.

Inching the door open, ready with his weapon, Cavanaugh saw other agents pounding on other doors, shouting the names of occupants.

The agent told him, "Smoke in the elevator shaft!"

Before Cavanaugh could respond, another shouted, "And the front stairwells!"

"Fire?"

"Or toxic gas! We don't know yet!"

As the alarm blared, sirens wailed outside the hotel, presumably from fire trucks and other emergency vehicles.

"What about the back stairwells?" Cavanaugh asked.

Protectors and trade ministers peered starkly from doors along the corridor, security agents talking urgently to them.

"So far, they're clear."

"This could be a way to funnel us into a trap," Cavanaugh said.

Behind him, the suite's phone rang. Past the open doors in the corridor, Cavanaugh heard other phones ringing.

At the end of the corridor, abrupt movement made Cavanaugh stare toward an agent who jerked his gaze from the elevators and frowned at the ceiling. Gray vapor swirled above him. "The air conditioning vent! Something's coming from the-"

"Gas! I smell it!" another agent yelled. Coughing, he shifted back from a vent in the ceiling.

Cavanaugh pivoted toward a security agent, who set down the phone in Yamato's suite and raised his voice to be heard above the fire alarm. "I've just been told that the hotel lobby is filled with smoke."

"Can we use the service elevator?" Yamato asked.

"No. Even if it's clear of smoke, you can't use it. What if it stops between floors? Plus, we don't know what we'll face when the door opens."

Yamato headed toward the corridor. "Can we use the back stairs?"

"Seven floors. Do you have a heart condition, any problem that makes the distance too far for you?"

"No." Yamato hurried along the corridor. "But what if, as you noted, this is a way to funnel us into a trap?"

Cavanaugh smelled the acrid vapor wafting from the air-conditioning vents. Along the corridor, agents and clients were coughing as they rushed. Peering back, Cavanaugh saw black smoke at the bottom of the elevator doors. "At the moment, all we know is we can't stay here."

An EXIT sign marked the door to the rear stairwell. Eyes burning, Cavanaugh turned toward Yamato and the other officials. He gestured to the GPS agents who'd been watching the elevator and the stairwells. "Tony, use your phone. Tell the FBI what's happening. Arrange for plenty of vehicles to meet us downstairs. The rest of you, let's clear the way."

One man banged the door open, trying to startle an enemy as Cavanaugh aimed into the stairwell. All he saw were harsh lights, concrete steps, and metal railings. Using the metal door for cover, he pivoted around it, showing only enough of his body to allow him to aim toward the higher levels. No one confronted him.

"Clear!" he shouted.

An agent hurried past him, jumping three steps at a time to the lower landing, crouching and aiming downward. "Clear!"

Footsteps scraped on concrete as an agent scurried upward to make sure that the higher levels didn't conceal a threat. Hard to do when the eighth-, ninth-, and tenth-level doors crashed open, other hotel occupants rushing to escape. Amid the blare of the fire alarm, Cavanaugh heard their echoing clatter as he and the other agents added to it, charging methodically downward, checking the next level.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

Someone groaned. Cavanaugh turned toward a commotion behind him, an elderly man in pajamas tripping, falling down the stairs, two young men catching him.

"Is he all right?"

The man's face was twisted in pain.

"He broke his leg!" someone shouted.

Urgent, Cavanaugh motioned for Yamato's protectors to accompany him down the stairs. Flanking their client, they led the way, the rest of the officials and their protectors following. Adding to the din, cell phones rang. Officials shouted into them, trying to be heard, having even more trouble hearing.

The door to the fifth level banged open. A GPS agent aimed into the stairwell, saw Cavanaugh, reacted to the swarm of people descending from the upper floors, and urged his own group of officials and protectors downward. The fourth and third doors remained closed, the hotel offices behind them unoccupied at night.

At the second floor, Dawn Finch and the communication team escaped into the stairwell. Smoke followed them.

Dawn slammed the door, telling Cavanaugh, "We waited as long as we could. I grabbed these." She showed him a handful of computer discs, the security data she'd accumulated about the conference. "Is anybody hurt?"

"A trade minister broke his leg." Staring down, watching for threats, Cavanaugh hurried with her toward the ground floor.

"Wait," Dawn said. "I don't see Jamie."

"She isn't here. There were so many officials to try to convince, we split up. She's talking to trade ministers at the Southern Belle."

"That hotel's being evacuated, too."

"What?"

"Four hotels were hit."

"I need to find her."

Reaching the ground floor, Cavanaugh spun toward the officials and security teams who pressed toward him. His agents knew immediately what to do, no need to discuss forming a barricade in front of the door and holding out their arms.