Стюарт Вудс - Choppy Water

“I am.”

“Meet me downstairs in five minutes.”

“Sure.”

Wade hung up the phone in his suite. “All right, Eugene is in place at the theater, and Earl is already on-site. Jimmy, you’re in the rear seat behind Bess, who will be driving. These are your instructions: If you see a threat of any kind, or anyone displaying a badge coming toward you, you are to shoot Bess in the head twice, before you deal with the threat.”

Jimmy looked surprised. “Isn’t she one of us?”

“Do you understand your instructions?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Are you fully capable of carrying them out?”

“I am, sir.”

“Then let’s go.”

Bess was waiting beside the van when they came out of the hotel. She tugged at her right earring, then got into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirrors and the seat. She was looking into the rearview mirror when Jimmy got in behind her. She noticed that there were beads of sweat on his upper lip. A first-timer, like her, she reckoned.

Sykes got in beside her. “All right, let’s go. Normal speed, don’t blow the horn or do anything to attract attention.”

Bess started the van, put the gear lever in D, and pulled out onto Madison Avenue, then turned east on East Sixty-fourth Street.

“Any questions, Bess?”

“Nope,” she replied.

“Jimmy?”

“No, sir, none.”

Stone walked out of the transition office with a half dozen people, among them Gerry Mason and Tom Blake. Tom directed him into the front passenger seat. An FBI agent was behind the wheel, his badge clipped to his outside suit breast pocket. They pulled away from the curb.

“Stone,” Tom said, “are you armed?”

“Yes,” Stone replied, “lightly so.”

“You are not a policeman. Do you understand?”

“Wrong, Tom. I’m still carried on the NYPD roster as a detective first grade. My shield is on my belt; do you want me to display it?”

“Regardless of what your status is with the NYPD, this is a Bureau operation. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Stone said. “I’m under your command, Tom.”

“Then this is your first order. When we walk into the building, you may accompany us, but you stop at the theater door. You are not to follow us into the theater until I order it. Is that clear?”

“As you wish, Tom; I’ll wait outside the door.”

“Good. You may display your shield when you do.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“Stone,” Tom said, “how is it you’re still on the NYPD roster?”

“Our present mayor, who was commissioner of police at the time, made me a gift of the badge, promoted me to detective first, and put me on active duty until further notice. I’ve never had further notice.”

“Extraordinary,” Tom said.

“Perhaps so, but I can still participate in a bust.”

“Not this one,” Tom said.

“You’ve made that clear.”

“You don’t know the drill for the bust, and I don’t have time to plant it in your skull.”

“Understood. If someone armed comes out the door, do you want me to arrest him or shoot him?”

“The first person out of that door, after the bust begins, will be me, so hold your fire,” Tom said.

The van stopped outside the main door of Hunter College.

“Everybody out,” Tom said. “Normal pace, no rush. Stone, bring up the rear.”

“Right.”

Two more agents joined the group inside the door, and the unit moved across the main lobby toward a pair of double doors. Stone noted that they were both carrying long weapons under their raincoats. It wasn’t raining, he thought, outside or inside. Why did they need long weapons in a small theater? Stone wondered. He wondered about something else. Who was going to speak? Surely Gerry could pass for Holly at a distance, but she couldn’t speak in her place.

This whole business wasn’t adding up for him. Something was wrong.

They reached the double doors and stopped.

“Everybody ready?” Tom asked.

There was a murmur of assent from the group. The man in front of Stone put his palm on top of Gerry’s head.

Stone had never seen that before, unless shots had been fired. The door opened, and everyone started inside, except Stone. He hung his shield on his breast pocket, leaned against the door, facing the lobby, and waited.

Wade Sykes stood on the landing of the stairs outside the fire door, scanning the street for hostiles — vehicles or persons. Nothing bad had appeared. He looked down at the waiting van; he could see Bess at the wheel but not Jimmy, whose presence in the rear seat was obscured by the vehicle’s roof.

He half regretted the order he had given Jimmy, but it was absolutely necessary, in the circumstances. He simply could not rely on someone who had not completely earned his trust. He hoped that all would go well, and that she would remain a part of his group. He would know very shortly.

Then, from inside the building, came a short burst of gunfire.

Stone heard the first burst from the other side of the theater, and had no wish to stick his head inside the door while weapons were firing. They were firing rapidly now, coming from more than one direction, he thought.

Tom Blake opened the door to the greenroom a crack so that he could see the stage. The armored podium that he had placed at front and center, the sort that covered the president on speaking occasions, sheltered a single man, who was looking his way.

Tom gave him the nod, and the man stood up, still mostly covered by the podium, and fired a burst into the window of the projectionist’s booth in the balcony. Hopefully, Tom thought, that would do it. But it didn’t do it.

Eugene, standing behind the projectionist’s steel chair, reflexively ducked as the glass in the window shattered, and rounds ricocheted off the chair. He moved to one side of the seat so that he could get a look at the shooter, and, to his surprise, saw a head behind the podium. God help him, it was a setup. He returned fire.

Bess, at the wheel of the van, heard the gunfire, and so did Jimmy in the rear seat. She looked ahead and saw an armored police van pull into the street and block it. Then, in the rearview mirror, she saw Jimmy make a move, followed by an incredibly loud report and the appearance of a hole in the windshield, in line with where her head would have been if she had not, as a defense against the police van, let her ass slide off the seat and drop her onto the floor, while clawing at her pistol under her blouse. Another loud noise, and a large hole appeared in the back of her seat, scattering bits of upholstery everywhere.

She flipped off the safety of her Sig Sauer, rotated to the right, and snapped off two rounds through the gap between the two seats. One of them caused blood to spray on the head lining of the rear seat, and more was coming from a hole in Jimmy’s right eyebrow. Pure luck, she thought, then fired another round into his forehead.

Sykes took in the police vehicle and the action in the van with a single glance. He ran down the stairs, opened the front passenger door, and slammed it behind him. Jimmy was dead in the rear seat, and Bess was climbing behind the wheel. “Reverse!” he yelled, then looked over his shoulder and saw a police car on Lexington Avenue partially blocking their way. The van had started to reverse.

Sykes grabbed the wheel and looked over his shoulder. “Full throttle!” he yelled, and she stomped on it while he steered.

The van struck the police car where he had aimed it, just forward of the rear bumper, and the car spun about ninety degrees. “Stop!” he yelled, and Bess did. “Now, drive!” She turned until they were pointed downtown on Lex, and got lucky with the changing of the traffic signals. She had gone ten blocks before she had to run a red.