Amy leans forward, puts her lips to his, soft and dry, the kiss almost apologetic at first. Then harder, and Bell kisses her back, wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her close, and her palms are against his chest; the kiss breaks, and she buries her face against his shoulder. Like that, he holds her, feels her regaining her strength, feels her body tensing.
Then she is pulling away, shoving free, one open palm beating against his breast, then the other, before she lets her hands fall, unable to look at him. Grimacing in frustration, in pain, in fury. Bell understands. Anger at him, at herself, at the world.
“I asked you…” She shakes her head, swallows, refusing to give up tears. “I asked you, on the phone, if this was what you were afraid of. Did you know, Jad? Did you know this would happen?”
He wants to be angry that she would even ask, almost tries to find it within him to be angry. But he’s too tired, and he hurts too much, inside and out, and the kiss, brief as it was, is an ashen memory. That she would think that of him, that he would do this to them, that she could believe him so callous and cold. He understands that there is nothing left between them, the emotional truth of intellectual knowledge six months old finally striking home. She does not love him anymore, because she does not know him.
She does not know him, and she thinks him a monster.
He says nothing. He can’t answer. But the silence damns him.
“You bastard,” Amy says. “If anything happens to her, Jad Bell, if anything happens to our daughter…”
She can’t finish, but she doesn’t need to. She turns away, shoves the door open, leaves him alone in the bathroom, with his injuries and his guilt.
Chapter Twenty-three
The call with the Uzbek goes like this:
“Status?”
“Status?” Gabriel echoes. “Status is fuck-awful, that’s the status. I’m down another four and lost the second group of hostages. The whole damn thing is falling apart.”
“Calm down. Explain.”
“We’re fucked. We were waiting to ambush them when they came out of the tunnels, but they got around us somehow. They must’ve split up or, fuck, maybe there are more of them, but they hit the command post and one of the groups. I’m down another four.”
The Uzbek makes a clicking noise into the phone. “Very interesting. I thought I’d told you to take care of the problem.”
“Why do you think we were waiting in ambush, damn it? You think I’m just letting them fuck us like this?” Gabriel is practically shouting into the phone, and Betsy, still examining the bodies, looks up at him in alarm, gives him a look like he’s cursing out a priest.
“Do not lose your nerve.”
“My nerve is solid, it’s the plan that’s fucked, don’t you get it? There’s at least two of these guys in the park, at least two of them, you understand me? They’re serious shooters, special forces, I don’t know. Don’t talk to me about my nerve, your plan is in fucking goddamn pieces!”
“The plan is a good plan, and we will abide by it,” the Uzbek says complacently. Gabriel thinks he can hear water running in the background, an open tap, maybe a sink or bathtub, he’s not sure. “We are entering the final phase.”
Gabriel squeezes his eyes tight shut, tries to calm himself, can’t manage to diminish what he’s feeling, the yawning lack of control. “The plan never accounted for resistance in the park. That was never part of the plan you gave me.”
“There was always the possibility that one intelligence service or another would get wind of our designs. It’s immaterial now, and too late as well. Remember who you are and who you work for.”
“I don’t fucking know who I work for,” Gabriel reminds the Uzbek.
“You know enough. Just as you know that names mean nothing. Power, reach, expertise, those are everything. It’s all been accounted for, even this. You must trust me. Do you trust me?”
“I’m trying to,” Gabriel says, thinking that this might be more honesty than is prudent.
The Uzbek laughs softly. “We have always done well by you, always taken care of you. Do not despair now. Keep your nerve.”
“My nerve isn’t the problem here.”
“Your faith, then. The hostages were only ever to buy time, to prevent a full-scale assault. They continue to serve their purpose. If the opposition has the command post, use the hostages to draw them out and deal with them.”
“You mean shoot more of them.”
“That is what they’re there for. Have your old friend handle it. You have another task to manage.”
“We need to talk about the exfil.” Gabriel looks to Betsy, sees that the other man is nodding in agreement. “We need to move up the timetable to get us out of here.”
“Soon. Not yet. I need you to arm the device. The timer is already programmed. Just arm it, then contact me, and I will initiate exfil.”
He can feel the sweat from his ear wet against the phone. Betsy still looking at him expectantly, waiting to hear how the fuck they’re getting out of this. Gabriel turns away from the other man.
“Did you hear me?”
Gabriel lowers his voice. “I heard you.”
“The device is still under our control?”
“Yes.”
“You are certain?”
Gabriel thinks, says, “Yes, I placed it out of sight. They can’t have found it. Even if they’ve got detection equipment, there’s no way they could’ve found it.”
“Very good.”
“I do this, do what you say…how much time does that give us for exfil?”
“You’re worried you’ve become expendable, is that it?”
“That’s exactly it.”
The Uzbek chuckles. In the background, the sound of running water stops abruptly. Gabriel thinks he hears a woman’s voice, indistinct and faint.
“Let me reassure you. You are not. The others are. All of them. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Gabriel thinks he does. Gabriel thinks the Uzbek is saying that he is worth time and money and potential to the Uzbek and his shadow master, even now, even after this; or, perhaps, because of all of this. But the others, Vladimir and Betsy and Charlie One and Charlie Two and the twenty-one remaining hostages in the park, they’re all meat for the block. Intuitively, he sees that it’s those bodies, those lives, that will buy Gabriel his escape.
“I understand.”
“Very good. Arm the device, then contact me. I will have the details of your exfil then.”
“Wait,” Gabriel says. “You didn’t answer my question. Once it’s armed, how much time do we have?”
“Enough.”
The Uzbek hangs up.
“He’s going to fuck us, isn’t he?” Betsy says.
They’re tracking north, above ground, through Wild World, but staying as close to the trees as possible. Gabriel doesn’t want to risk the tunnels for the exact same reasons he avoided going into them after Bell earlier, and now, above ground, they’re certainly going to be showing up on camera. But he has no intention of making it easy for anyone who might be watching. Each time he spots one, he stops and raises the submachine gun, switches it to single-shot, then puts a round through the housing.
“He says we’re almost through,” Gabriel answers. “Just have to do one more job and then we contact him for exfil.”
“What job is that?”
Gabriel ignores the question, stops, pulling back. He indicates yet another camera emplacement. Betsy sights and drills a round into it, then a second for good measure, and they continue on, hopping the rail that guards the slope down to the river. It’s a gentle enough drop, but it puts them five feet or so below the pathways, will make it that much harder to be spotted on any cameras they might miss.
What job is that? Gabriel is thinking, It’s my fucking job. It’s the job where I kill God knows how many people. I’m just supposed to do my job.
The Uzbek is going to burn them, he knows this. Perhaps he will not burn Gabriel himself, he wants to believe in his value to the man. But now he is all but positive that the others will be sacrificed to whatever end the Uzbek is advancing. They will all die. Bullets or bomb, the Uzbek will spend their lives freely.