31
Asya tried to dodge away from the shot, but succeeded only in getting partly behind one of the Congolese soldiers, who had been guarding the hostages. Favreau’s gun barked, and the unlucky soldier burst apart in an eruption of blood that rained down on the horrified onlookers. Asya stumbled back, as if slapped by an unseen hand, and collapsed clutching her side.
King’s world closed in like tunnel vision. In that instant, he was completely defenseless. Favreau could have turned her gun on him and he would have died without taking a single defensive measure. He saw only Asya, his sister, awash in blood, unmoving.
He reached her side like a man wandering in a fog and knelt down. His hand hovered above her, but he was afraid to touch her, to confirm that this was reality and not a bad dream. But she was breathing and moving. She was still alive, and that was more than he had dared to hope.
Most of the blood was not hers, but some of it was. After devastating the Congolese soldier, the overpressure bullet had kept right on going, punching into Asya’s lower abdomen, just above her left hip. The wound was ugly, a ragged bloody hole as big around as the base of King’s thumb.
Some disconnected analytical part of King’s brain recognized that Asya was alive because most of the bullet’s kinetic energy had been expended in the initial impact with the soldier. There still had been plenty of velocity left in the round, but it had already used up the deadly one-two punch of the powdered heavy metal core. That was of little comfort to King. Asya was not dead, but she was badly wounded, and if she didn’t get immediate medical attention, which he was in no position to provide, then her death would be slow and agonizing.
But the realization that she was alive helped clear away some of the fog. He found Asya’s pouch containing emergency medical supplies — a basic rule of giving aid was to always use the injured person’s med-kit first. The pouch was soaked with blood, but the foil and plastic packaging had kept the inner contents relatively sterile. He tore open a field dressing and pressed it to the wound. It wouldn’t be enough, he knew, but it was a start.
As his tunnel vision diminished, his awareness of the situation in the assembly hall returned. Favreau was still holding both the gun and the detonator, her eyes dancing with excitement.
“What will you do now?” she asked. She wasn’t gloating; the question was sincere. She had made her move, and was now desperate to see what his counter would be.
King was wondering about that, too. If Asya had been dead, he might have just killed the Red Queen and to hell with the consequences. A few hundred dead in the palace seemed like a small price to pay to permanently end Favreau’s psychotic game. But Asya was alive, and that changed everything.
He knew what he had to do.
“Asya, can you hear me?”
Her eyes found his. “Yes. Son of a bitch, that hurts.”
“I need you to hold pressure on the dressing. Can you do that?”
She nodded, winced and then put her hand over the blood-soaked gauze pad.
He slid one arm under her legs, the other around her back and sprang to his feet. Without another glance at Favreau or anyone else, he turned and ran for the exit. There were shouts behind him, but loudest of all was the Red Queen herself, telling her men to let him go. He didn’t count this as a lucky break, and certainly not an instance of mercy on her part. This was a game to her, and she had let him go only because she wanted to play with him more.
He burst through the doors and ran toward the atrium. The battle between his small force of Republican Guardsmen and the army troops loyal to General Velle and Favreau had ended, or perhaps moved elsewhere. He had told the Guardsmen to engage just long enough to provide cover for him to reach the assembly hall, and then to fall back, but there were only six of them and dozens of soldiers. Maybe they were all dead.
There were two ways out of the Palais: the front door, which led out onto the streets of the Gombe commune — territory held by the rebels — or out the back door, where a short jog across the palace grounds would bring him to the river.
“Blue, is that gunboat on its way?”
“Affirmative. Mabuki says they’re a few minutes out.”
“Back door, then…” He fell silent as he saw a group of people emerging from a door halfway between where he stood and the rear entrance. It was Favreau, the enormous bomb slung across her back, leading a small procession that included several of her steroid-infused mercenaries and two hostages — acting President Gerard Okoa and United States Senator Lance Marrs. Favreau guided the group toward the doors. She met King’s stare for a fleeting second, then turned to join the rest of the group.
“Forget the boat. I’m leaving through the front door.”
“King you ca—” Deep Blue caught himself. “Not the front door. Go back into the west wing. There’s another exit at the far end. Stay in the shadows. I’ll guide you through.”
King turned back into the corridor, following the prompts that flashed in the display of the glasses. As he passed through the west exit, he heard the sound of the helicopter, its rotors spinning up for take-off.
The front of the palace crawled with soldiers, many of whom were busy setting up fighting positions for the coming confrontation with General Mabuki’s Republican Guard forces. Favreau might have fled the scene, but the revolution was just getting started.
As the helicopter lifted her into the sky, Monique Favreau flipped a wire-safety clamp over the dead-man remote for the RA-115, closed her eyes and allowed the tension and exhilaration of her confrontation with the relentless American to drain away. He was proving to be every bit the adversary she desired, and she was very much looking forward to their next encounter.
“Where are you taking us?” The demanding voice belonged to Marrs, the politician from the United States. She opened her eyes and fixed him with a withering stare. He recoiled a little, but after a lifetime of getting his way, Marrs didn’t have the good sense to know when to shut up. “Was he right? Is Consolidated Energy behind all this?”
When she saw that her Medusa gaze was not going to silence him, she turned away and tried to ignore him, but he pressed on.
“God damn, it is true, isn’t it? Listen, it’s not too late to fix this.”
“There is nothing to fix,” she said. “Everything is proceeding according to my plan.”
“Bullshit. You’re smarter than that. This little revolution of yours is circling the drain. When the truth about CE’s involvement gets out, and believe me it will, not only will you lose everything you thought you were going to gain, but CE will be finished. You will be finished.”
“How fortunate for you.”
“Are you kidding?” Marrs seemed to be on the verge of an epileptic fit. “Do you know who I am?”
“Aside from a pompous, know-nothing who prostitutes his political influence and licks the boots of wealthy oil billionaires?”
His lips curled in a disdainful sneer. “I’m the next goddamned President of the United States. That’s who I am. Now, let me talk to someone at CE… I’ve worked with Dorian Harrold, though I’m sure he’ll be surprised to hear—”
Favreau hit him. Her open hand struck his jaw, hard enough to shut it and raise a blush on his sallow skin, but it was really just a slap to remind him that, no matter who he thought he was or was going to be, she was in charge. His mouth hung open for a moment in disbelief, then he wisely closed it. She leaned in close. “Nothing you think you know matters anymore. There’s just one thing I want from you. Silence.” She relaxed a little and smiled. “It would be better if you gave me that voluntarily, but one way or another, I will get it.”