He brought the handgun down and put a bullet in the skull of the man still attempting to pull the Puma from his chest.
Quentin Larchmont, seated behind the steering wheel and watching with dropped jaw, grabbed for the gearshift. He threw the Suburban into reverse and started out of the alley, but a black Hummer pulled behind him, blocking the way.
Uzi reached down and yanked his knife from the dead man’s chest as two men jumped from the Hummer and headed toward him.
These men also had olive complexions.
And they were also armed. With suppressed submachine guns.
“DROP IT!”
The order came from the stocky one, his weapon trained on Uzi’s chest. And in a brief split second of irony, Uzi couldn’t help but notice that their weapon of choice was the Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun. It appeared to be one of the newer, more compact Minis. Though smaller than its full-size cousin, the Minis killed just as efficiently.
In the next split second, Uzi realized he was in the shit. Two men, approaching from opposite directions, had him drawn down with superior firepower. And he was out in the open, with no way of getting to cover before they made his body resemble a block of Swiss cheese.
Santa, now would be a good time to show up.
“Drop it,” the bearded one said. “Now.”
Uzi flung the handgun back over his right shoulder. He had a fleeting thought of throwing the knife, figuring he might be able to take one of them out — but that would accomplish little. At this distance, with their automatic weapons already in hand and aimed at his chest, he’d be long dead before the knife struck its target.
He tossed the Puma to the same place he had thrown the gun.
Quentin Larchmont, sporting a black fedora pulled down over his head, got out of the Suburban, then slammed the door shut. “Get him inside.”
The two men grabbed Uzi by the arms, spun him around, and shoved him toward the warehouse. One of them used a key to open the door while the other pushed him inside.
Buried beneath his shirt and around his neck, Uzi still had the Tanto — not to mention the boot knife. But getting to either was the problem. He was outnumbered — and his weapons, while nearby, might as well have been a mile away.
“Get his helmet off.”
The stocky one yanked on the black Bell while the other stood guard. As he worked on the helmet, Uzi got a better look at the man’s face, and realized his darker complexion was the result of hastily applied makeup: he was, in fact, the Secret Service agent Uzi had seen only hours ago in the Oval Office. Benedict? Was that his name? Yes, Benedict. That could explain the calls to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, the location of the Secret Service’s command post. But what did this mean? Were other members of the Secret Service involved? What about Whitehall?
“Secure him,” Larchmont said.
The bearded man produced a set of handcuffs and handed them to Benedict, then fished keys out of Uzi’s front pocket. He tossed them to Larchmont.
As Benedict ratcheted the restraints closed, Larchmont tilted his head, appraising his captive. Then his face hardened as he said, “Down on your knees.”
But Uzi did not budge. Benedict, standing slightly behind Uzi and to his right, swung the butt end of his Mini into Uzi’s ribs. Uzi crumpled to the ground.
After struggling to right himself, he knelt on his left knee. “I’m worth more to you alive,” he said through a clenched jaw.
“I didn’t think you’d say you’re worth more dead.” Larchmont removed his fedora and held it in both hands in front of his body. “We’ll talk about your fate in a moment. First, you’re going to do some talking. Based on what you say, we’ll evaluate your future usefulness.”
“I’m not in the mood to talk.”
Larchmont looked at the bearded gunman and chinned a nod in Uzi’s direction. The man shoved the point of his Mini into Uzi’s temple. “Maybe this will help.”
Uzi’s heart rate jumped. He struggled to control it, knowing he needed to keep his wits, to remain composed and be ready to strike at a moment’s notice, when an opportunity presented itself. Assuming one did.
But it was hard to slow your pulse and keep focused when a man was shoving the cold metal barrel of a submachine gun against your skull.
An image of his little girl floated through his mind. Maya. Tears instantly filled his eyes, but he quickly compartmentalized the thought. He couldn’t crumble, not now. Maybe DeSantos would answer one of the voicemails he had left for him. The ring of the phone might distract them long enough for him to make a move. At this point, making an attempt was better than taking a bullet without putting up a fight.
“Does Lewiston Grant know your operation is in danger of collapsing?” Uzi asked, hoping to get something incriminating on tape; the recorder in his pocket was hopefully still running. “I think Lewis old boy would want you to hear me out and cut the deal I’m offering. Everyone wins.”
But Larchmont wasn’t taking the bait.
“Who else knows about my private cell phone?”
Uzi bit his lip. If he told Larchmont there were others who have this information, the next question would invariably be, “Who?” Those people would then be at risk — after they disposed of Uzi. If he told Larchmont no one else knew, he would be killed for sure.
He answered obliquely. “I’ve got a recording of our phone conversation. If we can’t reach an agreement, the whole world will know.”
Larchmont took a step forward. “Where is it?”
Uzi sensed a window of opportunity opening. “It’s on an SD card. If I give it to you, will you let me go?” An absurd question — but Larchmont didn’t know Uzi well, and perhaps his pompous ego would allow him to think Uzi was just stupid enough to consider the notion that trading the recording for his life was a request worthy of consideration.
“It’d go a long way toward convincing me to make a deal,” Larchmont said, apparently buying the stupid agent routine.
“It’s hidden on my motorcycle.”
Larchmont’s lips got thin with the suggestion of a smile.
“But you won’t find it. It’s a micro-SD card, smaller than the nail on my pinky,” Uzi said. “Uncuff me and I’ll get it for you.”
The politician’s smirk blossomed into a grin. “I think we can manage.” Larchmont motioned to Benedict, who slung the Mini over his shoulder and pushed through the doors.
His odds having suddenly improved, all Uzi had to do was find a way of disabling the man holding the Mini against his head. While still handcuffed.
“Can I have something to drink?” Uzi cleared his throat, dipped his chin, and coughed. “My mouth is dry as hell. Please…”
“Are there any other copies of the recording?” Larchmont asked.
Uzi coughed again. “I just recorded it.” He coughed harder. “When could I have made a copy?” He bent his head down, and launched into a spasmodic coughing fit. Then he felt it. The machine gun barrel left his temple.
It was only a second, but it was long enough. In one swift movement, Uzi pushed up with his right leg while twisting his torso left. His head knocked the gun barrel aside at the same moment his right shoulder slammed into the man’s stomach. The guard flew back, his weapon tilting away and unleashing an impotent volley of nine-millimeter rounds into the cement floor and wall.
The momentum carried Uzi into a shoulder roll. He slid his cuffed wrists beneath his buttocks and under his feet, bringing his hands to the front of his body. He lunged for the Mini and wrestled the tip into the dazed guard’s chin, then squeezed the trigger. The man’s beard blossomed with blood. Uzi yanked away the weapon and wildly sprayed the area with lead.