She looked across the street and eyed every group for a man who didn't belong, a large figure trying to look small. To her right was a line of shops, but most were closed. She approached the recessed entry of a record store, a tattered poster in the window depicting an old black man wailing on a trumpet. Fatima edged away from the entrance, sensing a presence there. Then she saw him, curled into a ball — a drunk passed out on the cold concrete. The miserable wretch was using a newspaper for a blanket, and an empty bottle lay tipped on its side, near where his head had to be. Then a glimmer of motion came from above. The hand in her pocket tensed and Fatima s eyes were drawn higher.
For a moment she thought she had seen movement inside the store. But then Fatima realized it was only her reflection in the window, her profile taking the light at just the right angle. She stood still for an instant and looked at herself. The image transformed as Fatima again imagined what the surgeon might accomplish. The shape, the textures. She might be able to affect some changes herself, adjustments to her carriage and posture. She stood more erect, straighter, and taller.
Then Fatima chided herself.
She pushed the thought away. Now was not the time. Again she began to move up the sidewalk, her eyes studying an intersection ahead. She was nearly to the side street when she felt a vibration. It came to her knuckles, the same hand that was curled around the weapon in her pocket.
She had found the cell phone right where the big American had fallen, and so she'd picked it up. Fatima suspected it was the one he had been using as she'd maneuvered into position. Just before she'd missed the most simple of shots. Why had he moved at that moment? Fatima let go of the gun and pulled the phone from her pocket. It buzzed again. She stood still, staring at the thing, wondering if she should answer.
Curiosity got the better of her. She used her masculine voice, the one she had mimicked so many times before to become Caliph. "Hello."
The reply came in a squealing pitch, "Daddy, I have to talk to you!"
Fatima stood dumbstruck. Her thoughts stumbled. She muttered, "No, not now."
"Daddy! This is so, so important—"
Chapter FORTY-THREE
Davis was almost in the clear.
Fatima had gone for his ruse, taking him for a drunk. When she was ten steps past the alcove, he silently edged to his feet, ready to make a move for the cafe. Everything outside seemed fuzzy now, the thickening snowfall churning and spinning like a million tiny mirrors in the floodlit street. Davis checked the sidewalk, hoping for a group to blend into. Hoping for a nice rugby squad, drunk and loud, headed for the next bar. He saw no one within a hundred feet. A couple were shuffling arm-in-arm across the street, and in front of Fatima a cabbie was getting in his taxi. No help.
When Davis stepped out on the sidewalk his boots crunched over the icy mix. It sounded like thunder. Might as well have been an alarm going off. He looked over his shoulder and saw Fatima stop abruptly, saw her digging into her jacket pocket.
Davis froze.
He was caught in the open, twenty feet away. Fatima s hand came smoothly out of her pocket. He expected to see the gun, expected her to whip around and take shooter's choice — head shot or center of mass. But then he saw it wasn't a gun at all. Fatima was standing on the sidewalk staring at a cell phone. Staring at his cell phone. Probably because it was ringing. Probably because the president of the United States was calling.
Just what else could freaking go wrong?
Fatima put the phone to her ear and began talking. She half turned. For Davis, there was no one else nearby, no cover except for a dead-end alcove. He might as well have been standing there naked.
Fatima stood facing him, not twenty feet away, yet by some minor miracle she didn't see him. She was lost in a cellular fog, that hazy mental limbo where people engaged distant callers as they drove their cars over embankments. Fatima s eyes were locked straight on him, but they were a blank. No alarm, no recognition.
Davis considered his options. It didn't take long — there weren't any. The gun was in her pocket. She was twenty feet away. He needed that phone right now and there was only one way.
Davis broke into a run, his first two steps skidding on the slick sidewalk. It hadn't been bad when he was just walking, but now that he was trying to move fast, Davis felt like he was ice skating, or maybe ice dancing, two hundred forty pounds of unconserved momentum in boat shoes. It didn't matter. He was committed now, no turning back — because his quick movement had drawn Fatima's attention.
Her focus came sharp as she recognized Davis. She dropped the phone, dug into her pocket. Davis kept moving, legs pumping, gaining speed. His bad thigh felt like it was shredding. Halfway there she had the gun swinging level, slow and controlled. Or maybe it just seemed that way, the world slowing down. She had it pointed right at him, and Davis heard an animalistic scream. He wasn't going to make it.
He raised his hands to cover his face, hoping his headway would carry him through the first shot. The first two. He lunged, threw himself airborne in a desperation tackle. He waited for the bullet, ready to keep fighting. Then the shot came, a deafening blast at close range. Davis screamed as he flew through the air. He heard another shot, and another, all in what seemed like an instant. Then he made contact. But not firm contact — a glancing hit. Fatima had somehow slipped beneath him. She'd ducked low at the last moment, and Davis had gone right over the top.
He came down hard, sprawling across the cement. Davis never stopped moving. He was slipping and sliding again. As he moved he questioned his body, searched for the hits. Everything seemed strangely intact, still functional. He whirled his head and spotted Fatima on the ground. Davis blindly launched himself again, his feet spinning out from under him on the ice rink that was the sidewalk. But he kept going, kept moving.
Get the gun — go for the gun!
"Jammer!"
It came out of nowhere. Sorensen's voice.
Davis stopped, fell still. He allowed his gaze to settle, tried to make sense of what he saw. Fatima was lying in a heap on the sidewalk. She was completely motionless. Sorensen closed in, both arms extended with her gun trained fast. She hovered over Fatima for a moment, then kicked away a gun lying on the sidewalk. Sorensen bent down cautiously and checked for signs of life. Apparently there were none. She pointed her weapon toward the sky and backed closer to Davis.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
Davis had ended up on his knees. He eased back, grimaced as the pressure came off his ravaged thigh. "Yeah, Honeywell," he said, his breath coming in massive gulps. "Yeah, I'm just great."
Then Davis heard a faint sound, distant but undeniably familiar. It seemed like something from a dream and brought a thousand emotions at once. He spotted the source — his phone lying on the ground next to Fatima s body, half buried in a grainy footprint of slush.
Davis scrambled over and swiped it up. "Jen? Is that you?"
"Dad! What's going on? What's all that noise?"
The voice of his daughter hit him like a train, dragged his head to another place. A place he couldn't be right now. Noise? Nothing, sweetheart. Just a friend shooting the terrorist who was about to kill me. How was school today? The phone beeped. He had another call waiting. Sorry, the president of the United States is on line two. He's waiting for me to save a hundred airplanes from crashing. Davis forced himself back.