David Morrell - The naked edge

How long have I been… My God, what time is it? His watch was so covered with blood that he had to wipe it on the back of his shirt before he could see its display. Four minutes to ten. The last thing he remembered was charging into the passageway at six minutes to ten. Several quick slashes with his knife. That was his plan. Thirty seconds to teach Raoul his lesson. In and out. Five minutes to get away. Not all the team members would be warned that something was wrong. Some would pull the cords on their knapsacks and activate the detonators, releasing the gas. Not enough to save the mission, although the target area was still dangerous. He needed to run.

Looking like this? Straightening, he felt the wet heaviness of the blood on his shirt. Every security agent in the crowd will converge on me. Damn you, Raoul. He kicked the body, cursing Raoul for making him lose control.

Think! There's got to be a way to-

He tore off his shirt. In muggy New Orleans, a man without a shirt attracted little attention, but someone with a blood-soaked shirt was another matter. He hurried to a faucet next to the stairs, rinsing the blood from his hands and face. He almost ran back along the alley toward the street, but a commotion out there told him that somebody was charging in this direction.

Trying a door on his right, he found it locked. He tried a door on his left, with the same result. Terribly aware of time passing, he charged up the stairs, all the while folding his knife and shoving it with his pistol into one of the baggy pockets of his pants. His shoes clattering on the stairs, he reached the top and turned the knob, groaning when he found that this door, too, was locked.

Past a closed window next to it, he heard two women talking. When he pounded on the door, their voices stopped.

"Let me in! It's an emergency!"

Below him, footsteps sounded in the passageway. He stared down, feeling his heart skip.

"The middle of the block! The south side!"

Listening to the voice give instructions through his earbud, Cavanaugh veered through the crowd on Fulton Street. Reaching an archway, he heard the voice say, "That's where they went! Backup's on the way!"

"No time!"

Staying to the side, he drew his pistol and listened. With the noise of the departing protestors behind him, he thought he heard the echo of footsteps on a metal staircase.

Working to control his heartbeat, he took a breath, held it, counted one, two, three, exhaled through his mouth, one, two, three, and inhaled through his nose, one, two, three. Pivoting into view, he aimed along a brick passageway and saw the lower half of a man climbing the stairs. A blood-covered body lay at the bottom. A blood-soaked shirt was near a faucet.

Continuing to aim, Cavanaugh eased along the passageway, shifting his feet carefully, taking care to place them firmly and maintain his balance. Nearing the stairs, he heard pounding on a door above him. Ignoring the corpse at his feet, he aimed upward.

Carl.

Slowly, Carl's surprised look changed to a welcoming smile. "My, my." The smile widened. "How are you doing, Aaron?"

"I've been better." Cavanaugh tightened his finger on the trigger.

"Yeah, I'm not having a great day, either." Carl's lanky chest was bare, his ribs showing through his lean muscles. His narrow face dripped water. He held up his wet, powerful-looking arms in surrender. "It's been too long, Aaron. You must be taking a lot of vitamins. Either that, or marriage agrees with you. You don't look any older."

"For certain, you haven't changed. I see you're still having control problems."

"Well, he turned against me. I know disloyalty doesn't bother you, but it makes me furious."

"Apparently, a lot of things do."

"Only people who trick me into believing they're my friends when they're actually the opposite."

"Come down the stairs, Carl."

"I don't think so."

"Slowly. Carefully."

"What happens if I tell you to screw off? You'll shoot me?"

"Yes."

At the top of the stairs, voices behind a door made Cavanaugh frown.

"Not today, good buddy."

The door opened. Before Cavanaugh could fire, Carl vanished into the building.

Cavanaugh raced up the stairs, but not before the door slammed shut. He yanked at the knob. Locked. He pounded on the door. Beyond it, he heard shots. The door was metal. Carl knew that pistol bullets wouldn't go through it. That meant the bullets were intended for someone else: whoever had opened the door. Cavanaugh thought he heard footsteps running along a corridor.

"He's in a building on the second floor!" Cavanaugh said into his lapel mike.

"We'll seal off Fulton and the opposite street!" the voice promised.

Loud noises made Cavanaugh spin and look down the stairs. A half dozen agents rushed along the passageway. The person he focused on was Jamie.

"He went through here!" Cavanaugh yelled to them. Seeing flowerpots at the top of the stairs, Cavanaugh grabbed one and hurled it through the window next to the door. Convinced that Carl wouldn't have risked staying, he reached through, freed a lock, and raised the window. Air conditioning cooled his hand.

As Jamie and the agents ran up the stairs, Cavanaugh peered through the window, studied an office, decided that he had to take the chance, and crawled inside. Two women lay on the floor, streaming blood.

"We need an ambulance!" Cavanaugh shouted into his lapel mike. Rushing, he unlocked the door.

Jamie and the agents hurried in but stopped at the sight of the gunshot victims. One agent knelt, trying to help them while Cavanaugh and the others raced along a corridor.

In an office, a man peered up, hiding behind a desk. In another office, a man lay bleeding.

Reaching a lobby, Cavanaugh saw a receptionist trembling in a corner behind her desk. Glass doors led to an elevator and stairs.

"We've got operators waiting on the street outside! He can't get through!" an agent told him. Gun drawn, the agent ran past Cavanaugh and charged down the stairs, the others following.

But Cavanaugh and Jamie lingered.

"What's above us?" Cavanaugh asked the trembling receptionist.

She opened her mouth. No sound came out.

"You're safe now," Jamie said. "What's above us?"

"Other offices."

"And?"

"A roof garden."

Three minutes to ten.

A team member stood against a wall as the crowd passed. Impatient, he checked his watch, looked up, and paled when two men confronted him, aiming pistols.

"Hands up!"

*

"Turn around! Against the wall!" an agent shouted to another team member, this one a block away. "Jay, get the knapsack off him!"

*

"I think it's safe to take the knapsack!" an agent yelled to his partner three blocks away. "If it's a bomb, it doesn't have a manual trigger. Otherwise, he'd have blown himself up by now."

Someone in the crowd overheard. "Bomb?"

"Where?"

"A bomb!"

"Run!"

*

"Keep your hands away from the knapsack!" an agent shouted.

When the team member drew a pistol, the agent protected the knapsack and shot the man in the head.

The dying man fired into the sidewalk, fragments hitting the crowd.

Panicking, a woman tripped. Stampeding, three men fell over her. Screams filled the street.

Cavanaugh and Jamie hurried up the stairs. An office door was open, startled faces peering out.

"Close the door," Cavanaugh told them.

"Take cover," Jamie warned.

Continuing higher, they reached an open door, sky beyond it.

"Stay here," Cavanaugh said. "You don't need to do this."

"Babe, I'm not letting you do it alone."

Cavanaugh went first, aiming to the right while Jamie aimed to the left. Amid blazing sunlight, potted trees and shrubs surrounded them. Patio tables, chairs, and sun umbrellas provided a lunch area through which Cavanaugh and Jamie darted, searching for a target.