At least one of the gunmen was inside the building, too.
Clutching the Glock, Curtis groped for the door to the next room. He found the doorway, slipped through it — and the butt of a rifle slammed into his guts.
Curtis doubled over, the breath dashed from his lungs. Dimly, through a haze, he saw the dark silhouette in the darker void as the man loomed over him. He raised his Glock feebly, and another sharp blow set it flying from his stunned hand.
To avoid a third strike, Curtis rolled onto his side, kicked out with the last of his strength. He heard a satisfying grunt as his booted foot connected with flesh. Curtis kicked again — this time with both legs— and his timing was perfect. His attacker was falling forward, kneecap shattered, when Curtis’ boots sunk into his midriff. Helpless, the man was lifted up and thrown backwards by the powerful double-kick. He crashed through the front window, plunged onto the curb of Browne End Road.
Curtis clutched the battered desk and hauled himself to his feet. He heard heavy footsteps behind him. With nowhere else to go, Curtis followed the man through the window. His victim, sprawled on the ground, clutched at Curtis as he tried to limp away. Agent Manning smashed the man’s throat with a booted foot, felt bone and cartilage snap under his heel. The groping hands fell away. Stumbling forward, Curtis searched vainly for the dead man’s AK–47.
Across the street, at Bix Automotive, men were streaming out of the garage, a few of them armed. Curtis turned and loped down the street, one leg stiffening from the still bleeding wound. He knew running was useless, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. He glanced over his shoulder. Already his pursuers were in the street. In another few seconds, they’d start shooting and it would be over. Only a miracle could save him now.
Amid shouts of surprise, Curtis heard the roar of a high-performance engine, the squeal of tires. The men in the street scattered as the vehicle raced through them, threatening to run down anyone who didn’t get out of the way. Then the custom painted cherry red BMW skidded to a halt between Curtis and his pursuers. The passenger side door opened.
“Hurry up, get in,” a familiar voice called.
Crouching, Curtis dashed to the car, dived into the seat. The woman reached her arm over him, slammed the door. Still half-sprawled across the front seat, Curtis was slammed backwards by the sudden acceleration. Hand against the dashboard, he pulled himself up. Out the windows, Browne End Road was speeding by. Bix Automotive and the men chasing him shrank in the rear view mirror.
Curtis faced the woman behind the wheel. “Thanks, Stella… I don’t know what you were doing here, but you saved my life.”
Stella Hawk said nothing, her eyes on the road. Finally she peeked at Curtis through long eyelashes. “You’re bleeding on my leather upholstery.”
Curtis looked down. Blood seeped from the bullet graze in his leg. He’d also gashed his side on jagged glass when he jumped through the window.
“Sorry,” he grunted. “I’ll have it cleaned for you.”
Curtis stared at the road, orienting himself. “Make the next right,” he told the woman. “I need to get back to the Cha-Cha Lounge as soon as possible.”
Tires howled again as Stella negotiated the turn without slowing down. Sniffling, she reached a manicured hand into her purse.
“I’m not kidding, Stella,” Curtis said, touching his guts gingerly. “You really pulled my ass out of the fire back there.”
Curtis blinked in surprise when he saw the thing in her hand. Before he had time to react, Stella Hawk raised the.38 and shot him in the chest.
Sherry Palmer returned from her pre-banquet appointment at the Babylon’s beauty spa, to find her husband standing alone on the balcony. Motionless, he watched the neon of the Las Vegas Strip blot out the stars under in the early evening sky. Sherry dropped her purse on the glass coffee table, and went out to greet him.
“David, I was worried you wouldn’t get back in time for the event.”
His stare remained fixated on the streets below. For a moment, Sherry thought he hadn’t heard her. Then her husband spoke.
“Did you ever wonder what would have happened if there was someone at the Manhattan Project who realized the horror of what they were creating, and warned them against developing the first atomic bomb?”
Sherry frowned. “I think Oppenheimer did just that, David. It didn’t matter. There was a war on. The bomb was created to end it.”
David nodded. “But I wonder if there might have been another way.”
Sherry touched his arm. She knew she had to be careful now. Ask the right questions without sounding like she was asking anything. If she pushed too hard, he would only pull back.
“You saw something today, didn’t you David?” she probed gently.
Her husband’s frown deepened. “You worried that I might make a decision that will come to haunt me?” he said. “That I’ll do something to jeopardize my run for the White House.”
“David, you know I just want what’s best for both of us—”
He raised a hand to silence her. “I stopped something today,” he told her. “Something so terrible that if I never do anything else, I’ve already performed a ser vice to humanity.”
Sherry shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
He faced her then, and smiled. “No you don’t,” he replied. “Consider yourself blessed that you don’t.” “What happened, David?” she asked. “Nothing, thank God,” he replied. “In my capacity
as head of the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee, I cancelled a research program that did not bear the results the Pentagon was expecting…”
“But David—” “Let’s leave it at that,” Palmer said, wrapping his wife in his arms. “All right,” Sherry purred. “I know better than to push you for answers you’re not willing to give.”
“You smell nice,” Palmer observed.
“It’s the shampoo. I had my hair done for the banquet tonight. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“I noticed,” he lied.
Sherry gave him a doubtful look. “You’d better get dressed yourself — after you take a shower. You smell like you just played the second half all by yourself.”
David chuckled. “Maybe you’ll be more receptive to my advances after I’ve cleaned up my act?”
Sherry slapped his butt. “Get in that shower right now. If we’re late, Larry Bell will only use the time to upstage you again.”
“I’m going,” David replied, heading for the bathroom. A moment later, Sherry heard the water running. When she was sure her husband was in the shower, she lifted the phone and dialed Jong Lee’s room. He answered on the first ring.
“This is Lee,” he said.
“Mr. Lee, I have rather bad news for you. Whatever it was your company was working on, I’m afraid the project is about to be cancelled.”
There was a pause. “You’re sure, Mrs. Palmer?”
“Absolutely certain, Mr. Lee. I guess you won’t have to retool your factories after all.”
“Yes, that is true.” Another pause. “Mrs. Palmer… Do you know if the demonstration was a success?”
Sherry frowned. “I believe it was, Mr. Lee. But the project is cancelled nevertheless.”
“Good to know,” Lee replied, hardly able to contain his glee.
“And that other matter we discussed?”
“Of course, Mrs. Palmer. Send Mr. Cohen to my suite in two hours to collect the funds. I shall have the package ready for him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lee. My husband’s campaign appreciates your support.”
Sherry hung up before the man could reply. Shaking with excitement, she went to the bar and poured herself a scotch. She swallowed it in a single gulp. She had to be careful tonight, hide her emotions. It was difficult, however. The thought of all that money in a secret fund made Sherry Palmer feel giddy. With five million dollars at her disposal, she could buy a lot of favors, and destroy a host of political rivals, too.