Raoul crashed past retreating demonstrators, knocking a man to the pavement. "Damn it!" he heard behind him, but all he cared about was reaching the protection of that archway. He charged inside, but there wasn't a door that he could slam and lock. A musty brick corridor led to metal stairs angling up. Shadows beckoned as he raced to the stairs. He heard footsteps rushing behind him. Drawing his pistol, he spun and saw a blur as Bowie shouted, " Want to make a bet? "
The shout boomed off the bricks. Along with the fright of Bowie's swiftly enlarging figure, the noise was loud enough to startle Raoul. His knees bent. His shoulders hunched. His hands rose to shield his chest. He fumbled to squeeze the trigger, but at once, he felt Bowie walloping into him, jolting the remaining air from his lungs. He landed hard on the stairs, their sharp edges chopping his back as Bowie continued hurtling into him, punching him repeatedly, except that the punches were stabs and now it was blood instead of air that escaped from Raoul's lungs.
Chapter 31.
"You dummy, didn't you learn anything ? Don't bring a gun to a knife fight!" Carl drove the blade deep into Raoul's chest, his stomach, his throat, again and again, each thrust sending a shudder through the body. Gas escaped. Blood flew. He kept pounding until the torn mass beneath him was barely recognizable. With each frenzied blow, he felt as if he were out of himself, smiling down at the punishment he inflicted. Courage. Honor. Sacrifice. But the greatest military virtue is loyalty . This is what you get for--
Carl was suddenly in his body again, conscious of the gore beneath him, the blood dripping from his hands, his shirt, his face. A tremor went through him, a spasm of release that raised his head and arched his back. His vision turned gray. Then everything was vivid before him, Raoul's death-contorted body, the black metal stairs now sprayed with red, the crimson-covered knife in his hand.
How long have I been . . . My God, what time is it? His watch was so covered with blood that he had to wipe it on the back of his shirt before he could see its display. Four minutes to ten. The last thing he remembered was charging into the passageway at six minutes to ten. Several quick slashes with his knife. That was his plan. Thirty seconds to teach Raoul his lesson. In and out. Five minutes to get away. Not all the team members would be warned that something was wrong. Some would pull the cords on their knapsacks and activate the detonators, releasing the gas. Not enough to save the mission, although the target area was still dangerous. He needed to run.
Looking like this? Straightening, he felt the wet heaviness of the blood on his shirt. Every security agent in the crowd will converge on me. Damn you, Raoul. He kicked the body, cursing Raoul for making him lose control.
Think! There's got to be a way to--
He tore off his shirt. In muggy New Orleans, a man without a shirt attracted little attention, but someone with a blood-soaked shirt was another matter. He hurried to a faucet next to the stairs, rinsing the blood from his hands and face. He almost ran back along the alley toward the street, but a commotion out there told him that somebody was charging in this direction.
Trying a door on his right, he found it locked. He tried a door on his left, with the same result. Terribly aware of time passing, he charged up the stairs, all the while folding his knife and shoving it with his pistol into one of the baggy pockets of his pants. His shoes clattering on the stairs, he reached the top and turned the knob, groaning when he found that this door, too, was locked.
Past a closed window next to it, he heard two women talking. When he pounded on the door, their voices stopped.
"Let me in! It's an emergency!"
Below him, footsteps sounded in the passageway. He stared down, feeling his heart skip.
Chapter 32.
"The middle of the block! The south side!"
Listening to the voice give instructions through his earbud, Cavanaugh veered through the crowd on Fulton Street. Reaching an archway, he heard the voice say, "That's where they went! Backup's on the way!"
"No time!"
Staying to the side, he drew his pistol and listened. With the noise of the departing protestors behind him, he thought he heard the echo of footsteps on a metal staircase.
Working to control his heartbeat, he took a breath, held it, counted one, two, three, exhaled through his mouth, one, two, three, and inhaled through his nose, one, two, three. Pivoting into view, he aimed along a brick passageway and saw the lower half of a man climbing the stairs. A blood-covered body lay at the bottom. A blood-soaked shirt was near a faucet.
Continuing to aim, Cavanaugh eased along the passageway, shifting his feet carefully, taking care to place them firmly and maintain his balance. Nearing the stairs, he heard pounding on a door above him. Ignoring the corpse at his feet, he aimed upward.
Carl.
Slowly, Carl's surprised look changed to a welcoming smile. "My, my." The smile widened. "How are you doing, Aaron?"
"I've been better." Cavanaugh tightened his finger on the trigger.
"Yeah, I'm not having a great day, either." Carl's lanky chest was bare, his ribs showing through his lean muscles. His narrow face dripped water. He held up his wet, powerful-looking arms in surrender. "It's been too long, Aaron. You must be taking a lot of vitamins. Either that, or marriage agrees with you. You don't look any older."
"For certain, you haven't changed. I see you're still having control problems."
"Well, he turned against me. I know disloyalty doesn't bother you , but it makes me furious."
"Apparently, a lot of things do."
"Only people who trick me into believing they're my friends when they're actually the opposite."
"Come down the stairs, Carl."
"I don't think so."
"Slowly. Carefully."
"What happens if I tell you to screw off? You'll shoot me?"
"Yes."
At the top of the stairs, voices behind a door made Cavanaugh frown.