David Baldacci: Split Second

He looked around, trying to find something, anything, that might help him survive. All he saw was a replay of a horrific event that he'd never wanted to think about, much less relive.

And then it struck him: who was going to play the role of Arnold Ramsey? The answer came to him in a flash. Like father, like daughter! That son of a bitch. He really was going to do it again.

Michelle flitted along the trees, keeping a close eye out for anyone near the hotel. As she did so, she saw Jefferson Parks climb into a truck, its wheels kicking up dirt as he raced off. Okay, one less opponent to worry about, she thought. Satisfied it was safe to try it, she bent low and crab-walked to the fence. She was about to start climbing but then drew back. The low hum had puzzled her, and then she saw the wire running to the fence. She stepped back, picked up a stick and tossed it against the chain link. It hit and was immediately fried. Great, the fence was electrified. She couldn't use the gap in the fence because she'd told Parks about it, and they might be watching for her there, not convinced of her death by drowning. And the gap was so small she couldn't have avoided touching the fence anyway.

She moved back into the woods and thought through the dilemma. Finally she remembered what she'd seen on her first visit here and realized it might be her only way in. She ran to the backof the building where the slope of the land running up to the fence formed a perfect launch site of sorts. She'd been a champion long and high jumper in high school, but that had been a while ago. She measured off the distances, did a few practice jogs, eyed the height of the fence in relation to where she'd be jumping from. She removed her low-heeled shoes, tossed them over the fence, took up her starting position, said a silent prayer, drew in a long breath and took off at a dead run. She counted off her steps, just as she'd been coached. She came within a few seconds of aborting the whole thing as the electrified fence drew closer and closer. If she failed here, the defeat would not consist merely of a few tears at being beaten in a track meet. This one was for keeps.

She lifted off, her legs, arms and back working in unison, her muscle memory returning just in time as she twisted her body, arched her back and cleared the top of the fence by six inches. There was no soft foam to break her fall, and she slowly rose, aching all over, and put her shoes back on. Threading her way to the building, she found another broken window and slipped inside.

As the time moved to 10:26, a man appeared from the same doorway King had come through. John Bruno looked confused, frightened and ready to vomit. King could relate; he wanted to throw up too. He and Bruno were the Christians awaiting the lions as the bloodthirsty crowd eagerly anticipated the coming slaughter. When King approached him, Bruno instantly recoiled. "Please, please don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help."

Bruno looked at him with a bewildered expression. "Who are you?"

King started to say something and then stopped. How exactly could he explain this? "I'm your Secret Service agent," he finally said.

Surprisingly Bruno seemed to accept this without question. "What's going on?" asked Bruno. "Where are we?"

"We're in a hotel. And something is about to happen. I'm not exactly sure what."

"Where's the rest of your men?"

King looked at him blankly. "I wish I knew… sir." This was all beyond insane, but what else was he supposed to do? And he had to admit, his demeanor as an agent had come back more easily than he would have thought.

Bruno saw the room's exit door. "Can't we just leave?"

"Uh, no, that wouldn't be a good idea." King was watching theclock as it moved to 10:29. Eight years ago Ritter was in front of him, dealing with the adoring crowd. King wasn't going to make that mistake with Bruno. He led him over to the rope. "I want you to stand behind me. Whatever happens, just keep behind me."

"Yes, absolutely."

Actually King wanted to get behind him. After all these years here he was: a damn human shield again.

He pulled the gun from his pocket. If the bullets weren't real, he had no chance. He eyed the velvet rope. He took a step forward. He was within an inch of it now, ironically almost in the exact same spot Ritter was in when Ramsey shot him. As the hand moved to 10:30, King chambered a round.

"Well, bring on the fat babies to kiss," mumbled King. "Just bring it on."

As Michelle peered around the corner, she saw the man standing outside the door to the Stonewall Jackson Room. He was armed with a pistol and rifle and looked to be the man who'd impersonated the police sniper in the tree before joining Parks in trying to kill her. She couldn't see his face clearly, but she suspected this man was Simmons. If so, she had an advantage. Should she jump out and tell him to freeze? He might get a shot off and be lucky enough to hit her. And then she looked up and saw the sentry glance at his watch and smile. That could only mean…

She rolled out, her pistol aimed at his chest. She did tell him to freeze, but she modified that approach somewhat by firing at the same time as she cried out. The slugs hit him right in the pecs; he yelled out and dropped. Michelle ran forward, reached the fallen man, kicked his weapons away, knelt down and checked his pulse. The booted foot came up and caught her on the shoulder, and Michelle tumbled back and lost her gun.

The man staggered up, grasping at his chest. How could that be? She'd nailed him squarely in the upper torso. She answered herquestion almost immediately as she struggled to her feet. Body armor. She lunged for her gun but so did he. They crashed into each other, and he got a stranglehold around her neck.

"This time," he hissed in her ear, "you're going to die, bitch." It was the man who'd tried to kill her in her truck.

She couldn't match him in strength, so she decided to use her advantage. She jammed her elbow into his left side, right where she believed she'd shot him that night. He moaned and his grip broke and he went to his knees. She kicked away from him, slid across the floor and fumbled for her gun. As her hands closed around it, she turned and saw Simmons rise up and pull a knife from his belt.

She aimed and fired, and the round hit him in the dead center of the forehead. She dragged herself over to him. As she stared down at his body, she had an idea. It just might work.

At precisely 10:31 King realized he had a major problem, or at least another major problem to join all the others. He glanced at the elevator. If the present held to the past, something was going to happen with that elevator. The problem was, if those doors somehow opened and King didn't look away to see what it was, he and Bruno might be attacked from that direction. Yet if he did look to see what it was, as he had eight years ago, that momentary distraction could spell doom for them both. He envisioned Sidney Morse watching him ponder this dilemma and laughing his butt off.

As the clock moved to the fateful minute, King reached back and grabbed hold of Bruno. "When I tell you to go down," he whispered urgently, "you go down!"

It was as though King could see every sliver of the clock's movement as the hand moved to 10:32. He readied his pistol. He thought about firing a round, to see if his ammo was live, but Morse could very well have only given him one real bullet, and he would have wasted it. Morse had probably figured that one too.

He made sweeping arcs with his gun, and his grip on Bruno's coat grew tighter. The candidate's breathing was accelerating so fast King was afraid he might just faint. He thought he could hear the smacks of Bruno's heart and then realized they were his own. Okay, he was as ready as he was going to be.