Arnold Triesman wanted to call the whole thing off. Right then and there, before Racer pulled out his speech behind the podium, he wanted to shoo him back out through the archway. The nag in his gut had escalated into full-scale cramps, and he had all he could do just to stay upright. He’d learned to trust such feelings over the years.
But this time his fear seemed uncalled for. There were no working threats, no possible perps other than a giant Indian who had disappeared, and his boys had thrown a blanket around the area that was thick enough to keep the sun out.
“On the whole, I’d rather be in Philadelphia…”
Racer’s opening remarks were greeted by polite laughter and applause in the courtyard. Triesman hovered by his right side and gazed upward at the skyline through his sunglasses.
“Hold it, mister! I said freeze!”
Johnny knew he had chosen the wrong roof as soon as he emerged through the door on top of the Public Ledger Building. Something had confused his feelings, and all he could do was what he was told.
“Now turn around. Slowly.”
He obliged — and found himself facing a Secret Service agent holding a sniper’s rifle on him.
“Stay right where you are or I’ll shoot!..Hey, can you hear me or what?”
Wareagle’s eyes had drifted across to the next roof and another figure sighting down through his own rifle. The commotion on this roof should have drawn his attention but hadn’t. The coldness that emanated from him wasn’t that of a Wakinyan, but something was all wrong about the man, nevertheless.
“Now, turn around and kiss the wall. Hands in the air!”
Johnny had no choice but to obey for now.
“Pit Crew Leader, this is Sky View Eight,” he heard the agent bark into a walkie-talkie. “I have suspect in custody at my twenty. Repeat, Sky View Eight has suspect in custody.”
The man was eight feet away, a safe distance, especially considering that Johnny’s back remained turned to him. No way, logic dictated, that a man could both turn and close that gap before you could fire if you had him properly covered. The agent saw the big Indian swing, but never actually recorded the lunge that cut the distance by more than half. He had been lowering his walkie-talkie and, before he could record another thought, he felt himself parted from his gun, which clacked once on the edge of the roof and then dropped over. He was never aware of the blow launched at him until a numbness raced through his head. There was only a flash and then darkness as consciousness fled with his footing.
More relaxed now, Triesman slid away from the vice president in order to more easily issue instructions. The Indian was in custody on the Public Ledger rooftop, so apparently the sighting hadn’t been so innocent, after all. “This is Pit Crew Leader. We have a Code Red on rooftop of Public Ledger. First and second teams converge. Fly boy, you copy that?”
“That’s a roger, Pit Crew Leader.”
“Let’s move!”
Weetz’s mouth was parched. He ran his tongue over his lips and adjusted the tip of the rifle one last time. In that final instant, when thoughts of the kill are more real than the kill itself, he pulled out of the real world. He heard nothing — not the crowd, or the helicopter, not even his victim’s words. There was only silence, and he gave himself up to it. He knew that when the rifle went off, he would not hear the gunshot. There would be a slight kick against his shoulder, the feeling quickly muted by the sight of his victim’s head exploding through his sight.
Weetz relished that. No kill was complete unless he could register the end result himself. Same reason fathers wanted to be in the delivery room, he supposed, in a twisted sense.
Weetz started to ease the trigger backward.
Wareagle knew there was nothing he could do now. He had chosen the wrong roof, and the error had cost him. This wasn’t a Wakinyan on the adjacent roof, just an ordinary paid assassin readying his shot. That’s what had thrown him off. But the Wakinyan was about. Somewhere.
The wop-wop-wop of the helicopter soaring directly for him distracted Johnny as the second shape appeared on the Curtis Publishing Building roof. A blast of cold thumped into him, his eyes swung to lock on a blur whirling toward the gunman fast enough to deny its own motion. Wareagle knew he was watching the enemy who had drawn him here, knew it even before the Wakinyan reached the gunman from behind.
The sudden extra influx of security around the area had almost denied Abraham access to the building. He had finally made it in after incapacitating two Secret Service men, but something remained very wrong. He had never known such a feeling — or the slight tremor of fear that came with it.
He recalled the escape he and the other disciples had made into the Amazon jungle. The seven soldiers had proven no contest at all, but in their wake two others had come. Different. Much more…challenging. Could one of those two be here today?
He had barely been able to get to the roof in time. The gunman pulled the trigger at the precise instant Abraham reached him, and the errant bullet flew harmlessly by. From there it was over very fast. Abraham twisted the man’s head in a sudden, violent motion. The head turned all the way around and flopped down between his shoulder blades. It was then that Abraham felt eyes boring into him like hot coals melting through his flesh and swung to find their source.
Arnold Triesman never heard the gunshot. What he did hear was a granite-splitting smack against the statue of John Barry. Instinct took over from there.
Before he could form any thought, Triesman had barreled into the vice president and taken him down. Instantly the other agents enclosing the podium plunged with him to complete a blanket of cover. Long seconds passed before Triesman could separate himself from the pile and free his walkie-talkie. He brought it to his lips, wondering what the hell had gone wrong on the rooftop above.
“We have shots fired from Sector Eight! Repeat: Shots fired! Converge! This is a Code Blue! Everyone converge!”
Johnny Wareagle watched the Wakinyan’s eyes find his from the adjacent rooftop. The chill within him deepened. The Wakinyan radiated cold in all directions.
In that instant he knew he was face-to-face with something more machine than man, knew this was the opponent that had been chosen for his Hanbelachia. Everything in his life had been a prelude to this.
Their eyes held as the Wakinyan leaned over and pulled the rifle from the corpse’s grasp. There was plenty of time for Johnny to dive to safety, but he didn’t. He watched as the Wakinyan brought the rifle level with his chest, holding it out with one hand on the barrel and another on the stock.
Johnny saw the weapon bend, then heard a sharp snap as it broke in two pieces.
The Wakinyan might have smiled slightly. It was too far a distance to tell. Someone from the hovering helicopter shouted something through a bullhorn and Johnny gazed up briefly. When he looked back in the direction of the Curtis Publishing Building, the Wakinyan was gone. And before the chopper’s sharpshooters could find him in their sights, so was Johnny.
Chapter 28
Blaine knew the Japanese weren’t going to kill them when they didn’t shoot right away. Instead, the gun-wielding group herded him and Patty toward a trio of waiting cars. Their moves were well processed, almost mechanical, the mark of orders being carried out to the letter.