Body armor, thought DeBolt. It was the only explanation. If DeBolt took a shot, he would have to aim for the head. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He ignored the weapon and tried to read Delta. Whatever frenzy had possessed him was gone, and DeBolt was again looking at an expressionless mask. “There’s no need for us to be against each other,” he said. “Patel was the enemy. You and I … we didn’t ask for any of this.”
He waited. Delta didn’t respond. No nod, no shoulder shrug. No transmission through META.
“We both served our country,” said DeBolt. “We’re on the same side.”
The big man looked at him thoughtfully, as if weighing what DeBolt was saying.
“You and I are casualties of META — none of this was for our benefit. I only want it to end, and I think you do too. No one else on earth can appreciate what you’ve been through — not like I do. I understand!”
Finally, Delta opened his mouth, and without making a sound he mouthed three words DeBolt could easily read: No, you don’t.
DeBolt saw the big man tense, saw his body lower slightly, like a massive cat ready to lunge. DeBolt looked down at the weapon, and when he did his spirits sank. The gun’s slide had locked back. Which meant it was empty.
62
Delta came at him fast.
Without a weapon, DeBolt knew he had little chance against the assassin in close quarters combat. He took the only way out. With one great stride back, he vaulted over the rail behind him.
Delta’s hand swiped at his shoulder as DeBolt launched into the air. He dropped twenty feet, his arms outstretched for balance as he tried to set for a landing: legs together, knees bent, ready to roll onto a hip. Thankfully the dirt was soft, but he hit hard and his right knee buckled in a bad way.
The pain was excruciating, and DeBolt instinctively grabbed his leg. He looked up and saw Delta leaning over the rail. For a moment he thought the killer might follow, but then he seemed to realize DeBolt was injured. He disappeared, his heavy boots stomping across marble.
With Patel’s body right next to him, DeBolt rolled away and tried to get to his feet. His first attempt failed as a bolt of pain shot through his leg. The sound of Delta’s footsteps thundering down a staircase made him try again. He managed to stand, and at a glance saw only one exit from the dirt riding floor. DeBolt hobbled toward it and fell shoulder-first into what looked like a barn door.
He burst out into daylight.
Lund was cautious as she canvassed the halls of the Hofburg Vienna, increasingly convinced that she was right — the man who’d been standing behind her in the conference room was the killer. The assassin she’d seen for an instant at the Bundespolizei station. Could he really be responsible for Boston as well? Kodiak? Her cautionary detective’s instincts told her it was improbable that one man could have managed it all. Almost as improbable as human minds networking with computers.
Strangely she wasn’t fearful. He had left hurriedly, and Lund could think of only one reason for him to do so — a more important target had arisen. Trey? she wondered. Or perhaps Dr. Patel?
She moved more quickly down a long hallway, and rounded the castle chapel. She went through doors that led nowhere, and apologized to two Hofburg employees when she interrupted a meeting in an office. Her pace quickened as her conviction hardened. Trey, Patel, the killer. They were all here, somewhere.
Lund was nearly on a dead run when she entered the National Library. Thinking this had to be wrong, she backtracked. That was when the first crack rang down the hall. Lund froze, immediately recognizing the sound as gunfire. After a pause, a volley of three more rounds came in quick succession. She spun a circle at the intersection of four hallways as the report of the shots bounded amid walls and arched ceilings. Which direction had it come from? Finding the source inside these cavernous halls was like trying to trace a lone spark in a burst of fireworks.
She opted for what looked like the least-used path — an entrance to something called the Winter Riding School that had been barricaded off for construction. Two minutes later, she rounded a warning sign, slipped through an unlocked door, and found herself in a great sunlight-splashed hall. Squarely in the middle, on a floor of churned dirt beneath a giant chandelier, was a body so severely crumpled it could not possibly sustain life. The face was turned toward Lund, and she discerned a male with Indian features. Behind a shattered pair of glasses his face was twisted into a mask of pain, the last expression he would ever wear. Lund knew who it had to be — the man who was twenty minutes late for a presentation in the Festsaal Gallery.
Dr. Atif Patel.
She saw no one else in the cavernous hall, but her gaze latched quickly on one other anomaly.
A big door at the back of the riding floor had been left ajar.
DeBolt tried to keep moving. Keep functioning. His right leg was useless, deadweight dragging beneath him. The sidewalks were busy, the boulevards behind the Hofburg bursting with the commotion of a thriving city. He tried to keep as normal a gait as possible, knowing a pronounced limp would act as a beacon, highlighting him to Delta.
DeBolt kept to the flow of crowds, tried to lose himself in small groups. His knee was swelling, tightening with each step like a fast-rusting hinge. Fleetness of foot, the one advantage he’d had over Delta, was now lost. He considered hiding, but knew it was hopeless — no one could hide from META. His only chance was to get away, to create distance. Which meant he had to find a quicker way to move.
He found it just in time, red and boxy, gliding up the street a hundred yards behind him. A city tram. He searched ahead for the next stop and easily spotted it — a sign with a tram symbol next to sheltered benches. He hobbled as fast as he could, not caring how conspicuous he was, desperate to reach the stop before the car arrived.
The tram passed him effortlessly, then drew to a stop. DeBolt nearly fell trying to catch up, but reached the door just in time. He hauled himself up into the car — there was only one step, but his right leg was carrying almost no weight. He collapsed into an empty front seat as the tram started moving. His breathing was ragged, the cold air dry on his throat. He ventured a look back, and for a moment there was nothing, only the buzz of Vienna on midday. Then he saw the unmistakable shape, a wide overcoat bulling through the crowds.
The track was angling closer — it would take the tram to within fifty feet of Delta. The killer’s eyes were scanning, searching, and when they paused on the tram car DeBolt hunched down instinctively in his seat. Had he been seen? He ventured another look and saw the bald head pointed loosely toward the tram. Delta was no longer searching, his features lost to an empty gaze — the same one that was on his own face, DeBolt supposed, when he employed META. What function was he using? Was he commandeering feeds from cameras? Intercepting police communications? If Delta had spotted him on the tram, DeBolt was sure there was a computer network or application that could be used to track individual cars.
He suddenly realized his own screen seemed to be failing, the video intermittently going to snow. What now? Had the hard landing from his jump dislodged something in his head? DeBolt pushed away the ridiculous thought. Striving for logic, he looked outside and saw the problem — the tram was electric, and high-voltage wires were strung above the track. It was no more than signal interference, the same as when he’d gone near the electrical substation in Maine.