The shooter was walking slowly toward Tracie, firing with a silenced pistol, likely a Makarov PB, a favorite of the KGB. As soon as Tracie fell, he’d dropped his sniper rifle and drawn the Makarov. That slight delay in changing weapons had probably saved her life — for a few seconds, at least — allowing her to reach the safety of the air conditioning unit.
But he was approaching fast, which meant two things:
One, no one on the ground eight stories below would hear a thing. The silenced weapon would allow the Russian to kill Tracie and then return to his previous position without missing a beat. No one below would even be aware of his presence. He would still be able to complete his mission.
Two, she was almost out of time. He would round the corner of the air conditioning unit in seconds and put a bullet in her head. He would not miss again.
Her brain processed all of the information in an instant and she knew she was out of options. Without any further conscious thought, she dived for her gun, unable to see the assassin behind her, wondering if she would feel the impact of the bullet that would end her life or if consciousness would simply disappear like a light bulb being switched off.
But there was no slug.
She slid across the gravel-covered rooftop like a baseball player diving into second base and was amazed when she reached her weapon still breathing. She wrapped both hands around the grip and rolled onto her back, looked up and saw the Russian approaching quickly, eyes sharp, gun raised, taking his time.
She rolled instinctively as he fired and she felt a searing pain in her right shoulder, the impact of the bullet driving the right side of her body into the surface of the roof. She felt the gravel pellets digging into her back with a clarity unlike anything she had ever experienced.
She returned fire, squeezing off a shot as the nerves in her arm went dead and she lost all feeling in her hand. The gun slipped out of her hand and clattered once again onto the roof. She knew immediately she had missed, the Russian’s shot causing her shoulder to dip and her body to lurch to the right. Should have compensated. Dammit!
The Russian continued moving forward.
Tracie stared into the gun barrel, suddenly as big as a cannon, and prepared to die.
49
Ronald Reagan’s forehead was nestled squarely in the crosshairs of Nikolai’s scope. The magnification was perfect, and so were the conditions. Clear. No wind. Nothing to disrupt the trajectory of the bullet he was about to fire, killing the U.S. president and accomplishing his mission.
He breathed in and out slowly, through his half-open mouth, perfectly calm. Focused. He took one last breath. Paused. Began to squeeze the trigger, a steady, constant increase in pressure—
— and recoiled at the sound of gravel spraying as a body crashed to the rooftop. The noise came from behind him, to his left, in the direction of the bulkhead covering the access stairs from the seventh floor.
Nikolai understood instantly what had happened. Someone was here, and that someone had just fallen over the tripwire he had strung across the rooftop, a precaution he hadn’t thought he’d need. Someone was stalking him.
Nikolai reacted with a skill born of training and years of experience. He placed the Dragunov carefully along the retaining wall while at the same time pivoting his head to gauge the threat. Near the air conditioning unit his attacker sprawled face-first on the roof. He lifted his silenced Makarov — he had placed it between his feet for easy access — and as the attacker rolled and began to rise, Nikolai turned in a crouch and squeezed off a shot.
Missed.
Nikolai hesitated. The attacker was a woman. He couldn’t believe the United States government would send a woman to stop him if they had somehow learned of the assassination plot.
And where was everyone else? There should be dozens of agents, all armed to the teeth, wearing flak jackets and shouting through bullhorns. There should be attack helicopters and sirens and shouting and chaos. But there was none of that — just one lone woman who had scrambled out of sight behind the safety of the big air conditioning unit.
He glanced around and saw her weapon lying on the roof where it had fallen when she tumbled over the tripwire. Probably she had a backup weapon, but Nikolai wasn’t worried. Before she could shoot him she would have to aim, and to do that would require exposing herself to peer around the edge of the air conditioning unit. The moment she did he would put a hole in her head.
He sighted down the barrel of the Makarov and began walking slowly toward the air conditioner. He believed in aggressive action.
As he approached, his attacker poked a head around the edge of the unit as he had known she would. But it was the wrong edge. He had been covering the right side of the unit, so when he spotted the face peering out at him, he had to pull the gun hard to the left before squeezing the trigger. Again he missed. He cursed softly.
He kept moving, surprised the attacker had not yet returned fire. That could only mean one thing: she had no backup weapon. That meant she’d have to make a move for the gun lying out in the open.
He adjusted course slightly, turning toward the attacker’s weapon just as she appeared from behind the air conditioning unit. Her dive was perfect and as she landed on the gravel, her hands wrapped around the gun and she turned in one smooth motion and aimed it at him. She’s good, Nikolai thought with grudging professional respect.
And he fired.
She dodged and he caught her in the right shoulder. She squeezed off a wild shot and then the gun fell from her hand onto the roof. Just like that, she was helpless.
He took another step, centering the gun on her chest. He would put one slug center-mass, then finish with a double-tap to the head. Textbook. The entire exchange had taken no more than a minute, and down on Columbia Road eight stories below, Ronald Reagan was still droning on about the American Dream. There was still time to accomplish his mission.
He began to squeeze the trigger and vaguely registered a blur of motion coming fast from his left. Then he was hit by what felt like a guided missile and driven to the roof.
50
Shane reached the seventh-floor entrance just as Tracie was disappearing through the roof access door. He staggered down the hallway, pain blasting through his head. His vision ebbed and waned, roiling black clouds forming at the edges of his sight. His mouth tasted dry and sour and he felt like he was going to puke. He wondered if the tumor was going to take him right now. The doctors had said he had weeks left, maybe even a couple of months, but what the hell did they really know?
He reached the roof access door and pulled it open slowly. His hands were shaking and not from nerves. From above, a soft Phht sound floated down the stairwell. A silenced gunshot. Tracie wasn’t carrying a silenced weapon, which meant the Russian had fired the shot. He prayed he wasn’t too late.
He willed the pain to the back of his mind, pushing through the darkness threatening to overtake him. Took the steps two at a time. Noticed bloodstains on the concrete. Didn’t slow. The stains were dry, so they weren’t Tracie’s, and that was all that mattered.
Shane reached the top and paused. In just the time it had taken to climb the steps, three more shots had been fired, one of them from Tracie’s gun. That gunshot had sounded loud and clear, a sharp crack, but from far below, Shane could still hear the president speaking. The gun battle raging on a rooftop just a couple of buildings away had not yet been heard, or had been heard but its significance not yet understood.