David Morrell - The naked edge

"Everybody, relax!" Cavanaugh shouted. Amid the fire alarm and the reverberation in the stairwell, he could barely be heard.

"Stop!" he yelled.

The other security teams shifted into the proper mode, calming the officials.

"You're safe!" Cavanaugh told them.

The footsteps stopped clattering. The reverberation diminished. In a few seconds, the only sound was the fire alarm.

"The door behind me is metal. The walls are concrete. There's a firewall. Nothing's going to happen to you here. I'll check outside. Vehicles are supposed to be on their way. We'll evacuate you as soon as possible."

"What if there's a sniper?" an Italian trade minister demanded.

"Too much commotion. Too much to aim at," Cavanaugh said. Noticing that many of the officials wore pajamas, he said, "Find a security agent who's your size. Put on his jacket. That'll make it hard to distinguish you from the team. A sniper wouldn't be able to decide who's a target and who's a protector. By the time, he managed to sort everybody out, you'd be gone from here."

As protectors took off jackets and gave them to their clients, Cavanaugh noticed the elderly man who'd fallen. Two young men cradled him.

"We'll get an ambulance as soon as possible," Cavanaugh assured him. He nodded to Tony, the agent he'd spoken to earlier. Again, without the need to discuss it, Tony understood what needed to be done.

"The password's Treadmill," Cavanaugh said.

Tony freed the deadbolt lock and opened the door. Aiming, Cavanaugh scanned the chaos in the street behind the hotel, then rushed outside.

The rumble of parked emergency vehicles was so loud that Cavanaugh barely heard Tony locking the door behind him. Sirens approached. Exhaust fumes choked the street as men in uniforms rushed through a panicked crowd. Lowering his weapon, Cavanaugh saw a van creeping through the commotion, other vehicles behind it. Emergency workers set up more barricades, preventing pedestrians from getting in the way.

Before the van came to a full stop, Rutherford was already jumping out, hurrying toward Cavanaugh. "Are you all right?"

"Confused as hell, but not hurt. I've got at least thirty trade officials behind this door. We need evac vehicles and an ambulance. A trade minister broke his leg."

"On the way." Rutherford indicated more headlights coming toward them.

"Someone told me this happened at three other hotels," Cavanaugh said.

"Smoke, but no explosives. Gas, but it wasn't lethal," Rutherford said. Like the security agents in the background, he scanned the rooftops.

"It smelled like tear gas," Cavanaugh said, his throat raw, his eyes still burning.

"We think the demonstrators couldn't wait until tomorrow and started early. To give us a taste of what to expect from them."

"Yeah, I can taste it all right."

"Someone had a heart attack in another hotel. The paramedics think he'll survive. But if this had been Duran's work…"

"We'd all be on the way to the morgue," Cavanaugh said.

Across the street, an insistent woman-tall, with a runner's build and long, brunette hair-emerged from the darkness. Lights flashing across her, she forced her way through the crowd. She wore rubber-soled, low-heeled street shoes and dark slacks, her long legs increasing her stride. Veering around an approaching van, she rushed toward Cavanaugh, who broke into a smile and hugged her.

"Are you okay?"

Jamie gripped him tightly. "Yes. What about you?"

Cavanaugh smelled smoke in her hair. He was so relieved to have her safely with him that the smoke might as well have been perfume. "I couldn't be better now that I know you're safe."

Rutherford, a widower, looked as if he wished somebody would be overjoyed to greet him. He knocked on the door and shouted, "This is John Rutherford! FBI! We have the area secured! Evacuation vehicles are waiting for you!"

Cavanaugh shouted, providing the code word, "It's okay, Tony! You can get off the Treadmill!"

Slowly, the door opened. Wary security personnel stepped out, their principals in the protective box they formed.

Carl squirmed in his sleeping bag, sirens disturbing his rest. More sirens than usual at night, even in a city renowned for being festive. More than expected as police tried to contain protestors gathering for the demonstrations in the morning. His pistol and knife close to him, he instantly cleared sleep from his mind and sat up.

The van didn't have windows at the sides or the back. That made him feel sheltered and yet vulnerable to a sneak attack. He knelt and stared past the front seats through the windshield toward the end of the dark alley. The flashing lights of a police car sped past, its wail peaking.

A major accident, Carl thought. Or a fire. Or perhaps a collision on the river. Nothing to concern me.

Wrong. Everything concerns me.

He squirmed from his sleeping bag and climbed into the front seat, getting behind the steering wheel. Driving from the alley, he followed the direction of the lights and the sirens. When he realized they were leading him toward the heart of the downtown area, he found a safe side street on which to park. Then he got out, locked the vehicle, secured his weapons under his loose-hanging shirt, and went the rest of the way on foot. Passing barricades and growing groups of demonstrators, he avoided the conference center and angled toward the nearby business district, where he encountered so many uniforms and barricades that he was reminded of occupation zones he'd seen years ago in Bosnia.

At last, he reached his destination: fire trucks and other emergency vehicles surrounding a hotel on Canal Street, smoke spreading from the ground floor.

No, not one hotel, Carl realized. A further commotion led him to another hotel on Canal Street, more fire trucks and smoke. And another.

And another.

It's amateur night, he thought.

A guy with a sweat shirt labeled OUTSOURCE THE WHITE HOUSE TO INDIA on one side and KEEP AMERICAN JOBS AT HOME on the other told a buddy, "Man, if it's starting this early, tomorrow's gonna be wild."

A group chanted, "Stop burning the rain forests!"

Keeping a distance, avoiding the appearance of any association with the protestors, Carl drifted into the shadowy background. About to return to the van, he paused for a final look at the smoke coming from the hotel.

Tomorrow's going to be wild? he thought. You have no idea.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

The men looked up from cleaning their weapons as Carl entered the warehouse. Walking toward the podium, he rubbed his hands together enthusiastically.

"I trust you had a restful sleep."

They gathered before him.

"We've got another fine breakfast for you. Sugared beignets and chicory-flavored coffee. Eggs with Creole sauce and Cajun sausage. Hash browns. Steak. Biscuits. Gravy. Your basic Heart Association, cholesterol-friendly meal."

They chuckled.

"Eat up because you might not have a chance for another meal until tonight. No complaints? Everybody happy?"

They nodded.

"Outstanding. So are you ready to earn your pay, to do what you've been training for, to prove how skilled you've become, and show me an honest morning's work?"

"Yes," they answered.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes!"

"Damned straight. An honest morning's work. Once we get to Texas, you can let off steam. But right now and until noon, we're all business. Finish your breakfast. Roll up your sleeping bag. Fold your cot. Set it over by the door. Put the TVs, DVD players, computers, and video games over there as well. Pretty soon, a truck'll arrive, and we'll load everything. Those of you on KP duty will take the leftover food and deliver it to a homeless shelter, a different one from the one yesterday's KP team delivered to. No point in wasting food. Share and share alike. Camp without a trace. Words to live by, gentlemen. As soon as this warehouse looks the same as when we arrived, you'll put on your knapsack and double-check its number with the corresponding number on the map. You'll make sure you know how to get to the street you've been assigned. I don't want anybody wandering around asking directions from a cop."