David Morrell - The naked edge

No! Carl thought. Shoving protestors out of the way, he charged toward Raoul. The look on his face! He suspects! If he warns the others…

The constant stream of demonstrators held him back. Turning sideways, ramming his shoulder through the crowd, he was reminded of playing in high-school football games, his father yelling drunkenly from the bleachers.

"Hey!" a man said. "Watch where you're going!"

"Out of my way!"

"Don't ram into me, jerk-off!"

The man gasped, struck in the stomach, baffled by the blood streaming from him.

His knife at his side, Carl shoved harder through the oncoming crowd. Ahead, Raoul stayed close to the wall, gaining distance, managing to reach the next block.

A young man with a knapsack saw them coming.

Raoul shouted a warning.

The team member looked confused.

Raoul shouted again.

The team member saw Carl chasing Raoul. Fear tightening his face, he turned and ran.

"What's this about?"

In the communications truck, an FBI agent pointed toward a monitor.

"Where?"

"Here. This."

Cavanaugh and Jamie walked toward it.

"Somebody's in an awful hurry to go the wrong way," the agent said.

"Not one person. Three," Jamie noted.

The camera was angled downward from a roof. The screen showed the crowd filling the street, countless protestors shifting away from the conference center. Breaking the pattern, a line of three men charged in the opposite direction, thrusting their way through the demonstrators.

"Seems like the guy in back's chasing the others," the agent said. "Look at how frightened they are. They keep glancing back to see if he's gaining on them."

"And what about this?" Another agent pointed toward a monitor that showed a commotion nearby. People formed a circle around a man scrunched sideways on the pavement. He held his stomach, which was dark with spreading liquid. A woman raised her face and soundlessly screamed.

"Looks like he's been shot," an agent said.

Cavanaugh concentrated on the three men forcing their way south as everyone else went north. "Can you get a closer view of the guy in back, the one who seems to be chasing the others?"

"Sure."

The agent twisted dials. Immediately the camera magnified the man at the rear of the line.

As the face got larger, Cavanaugh felt a chill speed along his nerves. "Not shot. Stabbed."

"How do you know?"

"Because the guy chasing the others is Carl."

Eight minutes before ten.

Fighting his way through the crowd, Carl saw another young man with a knapsack. Raoul shouted a warning. When the man, already on edge, looked behind the team members charging toward him and saw the rage on Carl's face, he too broke into a run. Carl shouldered through more protestors.

"Hey, dickhead, watch who you're slamming into," a man said, only to groan and double over as Carl lunged past.

Ahead, Raoul hurried straight ahead while the team members he'd warned dropped their knapsacks and split to the right and left, racing down side streets.

They'll alert the rest of the team, Carl thought in a fury. I trained them to feel they belong to a tightly knit unit. That's how they'll act now, protecting each other.

Because of Raoul. All the effort I spent on him, he's still a punk.

Ramming through the crowd, getting nearer, Carl angrily calculated that he had sufficient time to teach him the consequence of disloyalty.

Ahead, the son of a bitch hurled his knapsack away and shouted to a team member waiting farther along the block.

"What are they throwing away? Knapsacks?"

"They seem to be shouting at people at the side of the crowd." Cavanaugh stared at the monitors.

"Men standing against walls," Jamie said. "They all have knapsacks. Here, here, here, and… My God, once you notice them, they seem to be everywhere."

"I hate to imagine what's in them." An agent picked up a microphone. "Surveillance One to all units."

As the agent described what he saw on the screens, Cavanaugh pointed toward the one that showed Carl. "What street is he on?" he asked another agent.

"Girod near Fulton."

Cavanaugh grabbed a lapel microphone and an earbud. "Keep telling me which direction he's taking."

Before Jamie had a chance to think about going with him, Cavanaugh opened the door and jumped to the street.

"Grab the guys with the knapsacks!" the agent said into a microphone. "For God's sake, be careful. We don't know what's in them."

When Jamie jumped to the street, Cavanaugh had disappeared into the crowd.

Seven minutes before ten.

Without looking back, Raoul had a visceral sense that Bowie was gaining on him. His stomach felt on fire. His lungs ached. His legs felt wobbly. Although he stayed along a wall, there were still too many people in front of him. Crashing, shoving, he shouted to another team member, "Bowie lied! Something's wrong! Get rid of the knapsack!"

The already-nervous team member seemed to be grateful for the excuse to run. Raoul leapt over the dropped knapsack and veered left onto Fulton Street. The side street had fewer departing protestors, giving Raoul a chance to run faster.

But he continued to have that visceral sense that Bowie was gaining on him. He saw yet another team member and shouted his warning. For proof, all the man needed was a frightened look behind Raoul toward where Bowie was getting closer. The man dropped his knapsack and raced toward the next corner.

Perhaps Raoul only imagined the footsteps pounding behind him. But he didn't imagine the increasing tightness in his lungs, the worsening unsteadiness in his legs. Never having been tested, never having passed five missions, he was ruled by fear instead of using adrenaline to give him strength. Gotta breathe. As long as I'm running, he has the advantage. Gotta stop. On the opposite side of the street, an archway beckoned. Gotta fight.

Raoul crashed past retreating demonstrators, knocking a man to the pavement. "Damn it!" he heard behind him, but all he cared about was reaching the protection of that archway. He charged inside, but there wasn't a door that he could slam and lock. A musty brick corridor led to metal stairs angling up. Shadows beckoned as he raced to the stairs. He heard footsteps rushing behind him. Drawing his pistol, he spun and saw a blur as Bowie shouted, "Want to make a bet?"

The shout boomed off the bricks. Along with the fright of Bowie's swiftly enlarging figure, the noise was loud enough to startle Raoul. His knees bent. His shoulders hunched. His hands rose to shield his chest. He fumbled to squeeze the trigger, but at once, he felt Bowie walloping into him, jolting the remaining air from his lungs. He landed hard on the stairs, their sharp edges chopping his back as Bowie continued hurtling into him, punching him repeatedly, except that the punches were stabs and now it was blood instead of air that escaped from Raoul's lungs.

"You dummy, didn't you learn anything? Don't bring a gun to a knife fight!" Carl drove the blade deep into Raoul's chest, his stomach, his throat, again and again, each thrust sending a shudder through the body. Gas escaped. Blood flew. He kept pounding until the torn mass beneath him was barely recognizable. With each frenzied blow, he felt as if he were out of himself, smiling down at the punishment he inflicted. Courage. Honor. Sacrifice. But the greatest military virtue is loyalty. This is what you get for-

Carl was suddenly in his body again, conscious of the gore beneath him, the blood dripping from his hands, his shirt, his face. A tremor went through him, a spasm of release that raised his head and arched his back. His vision turned gray. Then everything was vivid before him, Raoul's death-contorted body, the black metal stairs now sprayed with red, the crimson-covered knife in his hand.