James Patterson - Black Market

Carroll's gun was set on rapid-repeat. A full round of.30-caliber bullets flickered into the unfortunate terrorist's face and throat. He reeled back inside the doorway.

The smoke, forcing itself out of the broken first-floor windows, choked Carroll. He managed to keep running and swiftly entered the building, almost tripping over the body of the dying gunman sprawled inside the doorway. The man gazed up at him with a surprised look in his eyes.

Instinctively Carroll hugged the wall. Cheek tight against the cold, peeling plaster, he gasped for breath. His head was spinning at an unbelievable speed.

Cobra helicopter? How did they manage a Cobra? Getting a Cobra just wasn't possible… Green Band was waiting upstairs, and that didn't seem possible, either.

A heavy, grated iron door opened slowly onto the tenement rooftop. Columns of smoke, scattered by the wind, temporarily blurred David Hudson's vision. He was no more than forty yards from the waiting Cobra.

Colonel Hudson walked cautiously at first, then he began to trot like a victorious athlete toward the waiting helicopter. He'd done it. They had all done their jobs almost perfectly. The Green Band mission was finally over. The sudden exhilaration of victory was unbelievable to savor.

Hudson never saw the second figure on the roof until the skillful assailant was on top of him. He'd been careless. For once, just once, he'd forgotten to check, to double-check, every possibility.

“You can stop right there, Colonel.”

Face and shoulders still obscured in shadow, the figure appeared cautiously from behind the water tower. One hand held a Beretta. Then a face came into the light.

François Monserrat stood fully exposed before Colonel David Hudson.

Monserrat laughed a laugh of triumph. “My congratulations, Colonel. You nearly accomplished the perfect crime.”

Once inside the burning tenement, Carroll was unsure which way to go. He choked on a thick gust of smoke and felt violently sick. His lungs chafed as if they'd been rubbed with sandpaper.

Crackling reports of M-16s and booming incendiary bombs rang out. He could still hear the sharp repeating sound of the rotors of the Cobra that had landed on the rooftop. Monserrat and Colonel Hudson were inside the building… Get up there , his mind commanded him.

Carroll coughed and gasped as he struggled up the sets of steep, winding stairs. Flames curled all around him, throwing off searing heat. The pain in his legs was unbearable now. Something was terribly wrong with his back.

A heavy metal door blocked his way at the head of the stairs. Carroll put his shoulder into it hard, and it shrieked open. He had finally reached the rooftop.

The crimson taillights of a U.S. military helicopter sparkled impressively in the haze of smoke. Colorful, slashing streaks were thrown across the dark asphalt toward Carroll.

The Cobra was being readied for takeoff. The rotors were spinning. It was a familiar war-zone scene.

Somewhere in the smoke shrouding the rooftop, Carroll heard voices. They were strident and angry. They came from off to his left, beyond a high brick retaining wall. He could hear them quite clearly.

“You see, you must see that governments of the past are no longer viable. The currently elected governments are mere illusions. They are ghosts of a sentimentalized reality. You must understand that , at least. There are no more democracies.” The first voice was filled with the unbearable tension of the moment.

The second voice was harsh, but the wind muffled the exact words. Whatever the second person had to say was whipped away by the roar of the chopper.

Carroll pressed closer to the voices. They became clearer now.

“I love this country,” one of the two shouted above the wind. “But I hate what it did to the veterans after 'Nam. I hate what some of our leaders did. But I still love this country.”

Carroll saw them both then.

Colonel David Hudson. The same man who was in all the FBI and Pentagon photographs… strikingly handsome, tall, blond… “the consummate military commander,” according to his classified records. America's carefully programmed Juan Carlos.

And the other…

Dear God, the other.

At that moment Arch Carroll felt something precious and vital collapse deep inside him. It was much worse than physical pain. He remembered the first time he'd experienced the horror of death-his father's death in Florida. He remembered so well the feeling on the night Nora had died in New York Hospital.

His mouth was dry, and he was afraid.

Nothing could have possibly prepared him for this awful moment. Not even all his years as a policeman.

The man Colonel David Hudson had addressed as Mon-serrat was Walter Trentkamp… But the shadowy face Carroll saw was not the Uncle Walter of his youth, his father's trusted friend. This man was a ruthless stranger.

Carroll's world wheeled around him. His sense of reality left him. He closed his eyes and raked one hand over his smoke-blackened face. Burning tears were pushing, pressing, against his lids.

Uncle fucking Walter. It was the worst hurt, the worst conceivable betrayal, of his life. How could this have happened?

He thought about everything Trentkamp had been privy to in the past. He reviewed his own long investigation of Green Band. Trentkamp knew every detail he'd learned at each maddening turn.

Had Trentkamp dispatched him on the early wild-goose chase? Why? Well, he knew the answer to that. So he could control Carroll. So he could carefully control the DIA's terrorist group. Talk to me on this one, Archer. Let me know what you find out. Will you promise me that? François Mon-serrat had enlisted Carroll to help him find Colonel David Hudson and the Vets.

Talk to me, Archer…

Promise me, Archer!

Walter Trentkamp had sat in on the highest-level meetings in the White House, always observing, always studying. What incredible self-confidence and gall. How many years had this been going on? How many fucking years?… François Monserrat! The most ruthless of the world's terrorists was none other than Walter Trentkamp. Hard for him to believe. Yet it was true. Walter Trentkamp was an obscenity.

The rage that Carroll felt ripped through him. He'd been used. Just like the Vets, he'd been used, his trust violated.

Carroll carefully moved toward Trentkamp and Hudson. The blinding rage inside him now heightened. He struggled against the overwhelming urge to fire his Browning. To pull the trigger. To shoot to kill. And what are you, please tell me, mister? But he knew, he had always known, he was more than just a trained killer.

Carroll was ready now. He stepped out from behind the shadowy retaining wall. He spoke in a powerful whisper.

“Hello, Walter. I wanted to keep my promise. I did promise to talk to you about everything I found out.”

Trentkamp's face registered only brief surprise. Monserrat quickly surfaced, supremely confident, indifferent to Carroll.

“It was never anything personal, you understand. You were my reshenie . That's a Russian word. You were my solution to a problem. Nothing more than that. My mission is total Soviet domination. We have an interesting face-off. The world's premier terrorists. America's very own terrorist hunter. All of us in check for the moment. A powerful snapshot of history, no?”

Archer Carroll raised his Browning. Colonel David Hudson… François Monserrat… himself. None of them could win. Carroll wasn't even sure what “win” meant right now. And what are you, please tell me, mister?

“How do you live a life made of nothing but lies?” He edged closer to Hudson and Trentkamp. “Nothing but fucking deceit and lies.”

“I don't believe in the same truths you do. It follows that I don't believe in the same lies. Don't you realize that you're living with lies, too? Your own people have deceived you again and again… Everyone has lied to you, Archer. Your government is the greatest lie of all.”