The sun.
Coming through the window.
And Shane knew what to do.
He told Hall, “I’ll go first, just in case there are still shards of glass sticking out of the window frame. My body should pull most of them out as I go through, but we’ll only have a second or two before the guys with the guns react. You gotta follow right behind me.”
Hall said, “What are you talking about?” but there wasn’t time to explain. The gunshots were dying out and the screams were dying out, which meant the investigators were dying out. They were out of time. Shane lifted one of the metal chairs right beside the desk and took a deep breath, then stood quickly and heaved it through the picture window, then dived out the jagged opening right behind it, praying Hall had understood.
He landed on the chair and felt a slash of pain as his elbow struck the metal seat. He rolled onto his back and looked expectantly up at the window, waiting for Marty Hall. The air traffic manager appeared at the window and grabbed hold of the frame, but he was moving much too slowly. He wasn’t going to make it.
Shane screamed “Never mind climbing, just dive out! Dive, get out now!” He watched in horror as Hall began stuttering like a marionette, bullets peppering his body, slamming it down onto the window frame.
“Goddammit!” Shane screamed in fear and frustration, watching as his boss slumped half-in and half-out of the window, bloody and unmoving.
There was nothing he could do for Marty Hall, or for anyone inside the building. The slaughter had taken no more than a minute, although it had seemed much longer, and Shane knew he had just seconds left before the men with the guns appeared at the window and took him out, too.
He rolled to his feet and started racing toward the parking lot. He would use the cars for cover and try to make his way to his Beetle. Maybe he could start it up and get down to the cop who had set up the roadblock at the access road. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was a hell of a lot better than waiting around to die.
Shane sprinted into the lot, half expecting to be shot in the back, and ran straight into a third man in a suit. The man was holding a gun fitted with a sound suppressor that looked identical to the ones carried by the two men inside the facility, and he placed it squarely against Shane’s forehead as he skidded to a stop.
The man eyed him coldly and Shane knew he was going to die.
25
Tracie jammed the accelerator to the floor and turned the stolen Datsun toward Bangor International Airport. The little car was built for fuel economy, not speed, and it reacted sluggishly.
Tracie pounded the steering wheel in frustration, wishing she had commandeered a livelier car, but she hadn’t wanted to risk hot-wiring a vehicle equipped with an alarm system, and the ancient cream-colored Datsun, pocked with rust spots and plastered with bumper stickers, had seemed the safest choice.
She had glanced around the apartment parking lot, trying not to be too obvious, and when she hadn’t been able to spot any observers, picked up a brick-sized rock and tossed it through the driver’s side window. Then she flipped the door lock, opened the door, and threw a blanket she had taken out of Shane’s apartment across the seat.
From there it had taken less than thirty seconds to hot-wire the car—chalk up one for CIA training—and chug out of the parking lot. She guessed Bangor International was roughly a ten-minute ride from Shane’s apartment, and the woman broadcasting the live news report had said Shane was scheduled to be interviewed by the NTSB investigators at the ATC facility at nine. It was now shortly after nine. She hoped she wasn’t already too late.
Tracie knew the KGB had operatives working in many major U.S. cities. Assuming Boston was one of those cities, or even New York, the KGB’s agents could have driven up Interstate 95 overnight. They could be here right now. They could have seen, or learned about, the news report detailing Shane’s actions last night, as well as the NTSB’s intention to interview him today. They likely would even have learned where and when the interview was to take place. He would be a sitting duck.
The entrance to Bangor International Airport loomed ahead on the left. Tracie wheeled the Datsun onto the access road, cutting across two lanes of oncoming traffic, serenaded by squealing brakes and honking horns. She ignored them and accelerated toward the control tower.
Two-thirds of the way along the access road she could see a police cruiser slewed across the road, hazard lights flashing, no doubt to prevent the media and curious onlookers from gaining access to the control tower complex. Tracie suddenly realized she had no idea what she was going to say to the cop to avoid being turned away. She toyed with the idea of simply blowing past the cruiser, but the Datsun was so underpowered the idea was laughable. She would be overtaken by the powerful police vehicle before she ever got close to the facility.
She would have to think of something. If worse came to worst she would pull her weapon on the officer and force her way in, and worry about the repercussions later. She slowed to a stop next to the cruiser. The cop was nowhere in sight. She suddenly got a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She lifted herself up as high as she could in the driver’s seat and craned her neck, looking out the passenger side window into the cruiser. That was when she saw the officer. He was sprawled across the front seat, unmoving, blood staining his uniform shirt.
Shit. Tracie put the gearshift into neutral and yanked on the emergency brake, then leapt out of the car and hurried to the cruiser. She pulled open the door and knelt, placed two fingers gently on the side of the cop’s neck. Felt for a pulse. Found none.
He was dead. Shot multiple times at close range.
The KGB was already here.
Dammit.
The cop’s body was still warm, so they hadn’t been here long. Tracie considered calling an ambulance and rejected the idea. The officer was dead and the wasted time might cost more lives.
She cursed again and sprinted back to the Datsun. She slammed the door and gunned the car toward the control tower, racing along the decrepit access road, driving much too fast. The car bounced and jolted, slamming down into potholes so deep she was half afraid an axle might snap. She kept going.
The car sped around a corner, and a couple of hundred yards away Tracie could see the control tower and FAA base building. She slowed slightly, trying to come up with some kind of action plan, when a side window in the base building shattered. The glass exploded outward as a metal folding chair flew through the window, followed a heartbeat later by a tumbling body. It looked like Shane Rowley.
He dived through the window and landed on top of the chair, then rolled onto his back and looked up at the window. A second man appeared. The man was older, and as he tried to climb out, his body began to stutter as bullets ripped into him from behind, and then he slumped across the frame.
Shane scrambled to his feet and ran along the narrow alleyway between the base building and the control tower. He burst into the parking lot and ran straight into a man holding a silenced handgun. The man was facing away from Tracie, but she could see him raise the gun and shove the barrel into Shane’s forehead.
And she didn’t hesitate.
She drove her foot to the floor and aimed the Datsun straight at the pair. The gunman didn’t seem to have heard the sound of the little car’s engine, or perhaps didn’t comprehend the significance. Shane was facing the vehicle and Tracie hoped he would understand her intent.