“Medical assistance is on its way,” Mallory’s voice cut through. “Kelly told me to tell you she’s coming to help Sam.”
“No!” Tom shouted as he kept going past the fourth floor, toward the roof. “God damn it, you tell Kelly to stay in the van!”
“But she’s already on her way.”
“Shit! Jazz, call WildCard,” Tom ordered. “He’s standing by. Use him, however you can, to help you with that bomb. Mal, call the police, tell them we found something real. Locke, be ready for anything.”
“Always am, sir.”
He burst onto the roof, out into the brain-splitting brightness of the morning. Weapon drawn, he ran for the other access door.
And then there he was.
The Merchant.
He saw Tom, saw his weapon, and raised his own side arm.
He was just a little too late.
Tom kicked it, hard, from his hand, like a game-winning soccer kick. It went flying back through the open access door. Tom heard it rattling down the stairs. Goal!
But the Merchant was already swinging his briefcase, and it landed hard against the side of Tom’s head, then hard against his right wrist. His weapon dropped, too, and the Merchant dove for it.
Kelly took the stairs to the fourth floor. Starrett had been shot. Please, God, don’t let him have been shot in the chest or the face or . . .
He was slumped on the floor, bleeding heavily from a bullet wound in his shoulder. Two and a half inches lower, and that bullet would have hit his heart. Two and a half inches lower, and this man would be dead.
As it was, he was unconscious, and Kelly saw there was blood on his head as well. A second bullet had grazed his temple. She took off his headset and put it on. She had far more use for it than Sam did right now.
The door to 435 was open and as she went inside to get some towels to use to stop his bleeding, she stopped short at the sight of the bomb.
Dear God, Tom had been right all along. Tom, who was no doubt chasing the man with the gun. Please, God, keep him safe!
“Seventeen minutes and counting down,” Jazz was saying grimly to someone on the hotel telephone. “I’ll try to describe it completely, but I sure as hell wish you could see it for yourself.”
David sat up. Lieutenant Jacquette wanted WildCard, out in California, to see the bomb that was in room 435.
He could do it. He could help. With his Internet camera. His laptop.
He opened the van door. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said to Mallory. “Stay right here, all right?”
“But—”
“I’ve got to get something,” he told her, and ran for home.
Mallory couldn’t get through. She’d used the cell phone to dial 911, but she kept getting freaking disconnected.
Don’t go anywhere.
Don’t leave the van.
That rule was supposed to apply to David and Kelly as well as herself.
So why was she the only one left sitting here like a big idiot?
Her job was to warn the police about the bomb. Start the evacuation of the hotel. Fifteen minutes now before the bomb went off.
Screw this. How could she warn anyone with a cell phone that didn’t effing work? She switched off her lip microphone, left the van, and ran for the hotel.
It was amazing. There were people playing Frisbee on the lawn, workmen building a stage. And in the hotel lobby, it was as poshly, snobbishly too-elegant-for-the-likes-of-you as it always had been.
That was going to change, and fast.
There was a line at the front desk, a line at the concierge’s counter. But there was a security guard, gun strapped to his side, chatting up the woman working at the gift shop.
Mallory skidded to a stop in front of him.
“No running in the hotel,” he said sternly.
“Yeah? How about when there’s a bomb set to go off in fifteen minutes?”
The guard got even more stern. “Bomb threats are a felony, young lady. Even when said in jest.”
“This isn’t a threat or a joke, Jack. It’s in room 435. We need to start evacuating this building now.”
“Paoletti, right?” he said, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, I know you. You’re Angie Paoletti’s kid. You know, we got a call from the police department, warning us that Tom Paoletti was hallucinating some kind of terrorist threat. Do me a favor, kid. Go home, and take your nutball uncle with you.”
“I’m serious. Sir. Officer.” Mallory gave respectful a try. “Please, will you at least go up to room 435 and—”
“You got ten seconds to get the hell out of here,” the security guard told her. “And the only reason I’m being nice and letting you leave without calling the police is because I’m friends with your mother.”
“Friends. Right,” Mallory said. “Does your wife know?”
He reached for her, but she was already gone.
Charles stood gripping the railing on the deck of the harbormaster’s house, Joe beside him. “What do you see?” he said. “Alyssa, please. Shoot the bastard.”
“Tom and the Merchant are fighting,” Alyssa Locke reported from her perch in the church tower. “Hand to hand. Believe me, sir, if I could get a clear shot . . .”
“Kelly,” Charles said. “Where are you?”
“She’s here,” David answered the old man. “With Sam. The mike on her radio headset broke. She can receive but she can’t send.”
He stepped over the fallen SEAL, trying not to look at the blood on the towel Kelly held pressed to the man’s shoulder. God, Sam Starrett had been shot. This all had seemed like pretend back in the van, but it wasn’t. It was real.
“Get out,” Tom’s voice rasped over David’s headset. “Get her the hell out of there, now!”
“I’m not leaving Sam,” Kelly said calmly. “He’s already lost too much blood.”
David repeated her words as he carried his laptop and camera into room 435.
And there it was.
A bomb.
It looked a whole lot less assuming than the bombs he’d seen on TV and in the movies. It had a timer, counting down minutes and seconds. There were thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds left. Forty-six. Forty-five. Forty-four.
Jazz was dripping sweat. The hotel telephone was tucked under his chin as he looked at all the wires.
“God,” David said. “Those wires are all the same color. How do you know which is which?”
Jazz glanced up at him. “Yeah, what? You really think the Merchant’s going to color code them for our ease in defusing this sucker?”
“But in the movies . . .”
Jazz shot him a withering look.
David set up his laptop. “I brought my Internet camera. You said you wanted WildCard to see this bomb. Well, now he can.”
The withering look vanished, fast.
Kelly prayed. Dear God, don’t let her save Sam only to have them both blown up. Dear God, keep Tom safe.
She could hear Locke from the church tower, describing Tom’s fight with the Merchant. “I can’t get a clear shot,” she kept saying. “They’re all over the place. I can’t risk it.”
Then, “Uh-oh,” she said. “We got some trouble. The pilot’s getting out of the helo. He’s armed.” Her voice was tight. “I could use some orders.”
Tom was silent. Kelly applied pressure to Sam’s shoulder and knew that Tom’s silence was not a good thing.
Mallory ran into the middle of the lobby, scrambling up onto the top of a table as she heard a shot ring out.
She took advantage of the sudden lull.
“Excuse me, rich people, I need your attention! There’s a bomb in this hotel, up in room 435, and it’s set to go off in about twelve minutes! That sound you just heard was a gunshot. Someone should definitely call the police. And everyone else who wants to live better grab their wallets and head for the door and—”
She didn’t see who grabbed her and pulled her down from there. Whoever it was, she didn’t like the hand over her mouth, d
idn’t like the way he held her by the chest as he dragged her across the lobby and into an elevator.
She elbowed him hard in the ribs as she bit his hand, and he released her. But the elevator doors had already closed, and they were already going up.
She turned to face him, ready to fight, and found herself gazing into the barrel of a very deadly-looking gun.
And the man holding it had a face she recognized. He was in that picture she’d taken of the Merchant. He was the man she’d captured on film, talking to the terrorist. His face was ugly, distorted with anger. And on the back of his hand, just as Tom had described, he had a small tattoo of a single, staring, creepy-as-shit eye.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked. “I should kill you right now!”
Mallory refused to cry. Instead she stood tall, chin high, just like Nightshade would have. “Surrender now, asshole, and it’ll go easier on you.”
Tom was dizzy.
The Merchant was strong, and Tom struggled to stay in control, to keep from rolling back to where his weapon had landed on the gravel rooftop.
He fought to keep the Merchant’s hands pinned, knowing full well that the man was carrying a knife, knowing he wouldn’t hesitate to shove it hard into Tom’s chest if he had the slightest opportunity.
Tom was winning, though. He’d started winning the moment Locke had fired the shot that had chased the pilot back into the helo. He’d started winning big when the pilot and helo took off, leaving the Merchant behind.
“Pin him, sir,” he heard Locke say. “Pin him, and I’ll take him out.”
Easier said than done, particularly when his head was throbbing and his equilibrium was off. Still, Tom had his arm around the Merchant’s neck as they flopped about on the roof. He was cutting off the man’s air. He could feel him starting to fade, his kicks growing weaker.
“Eleven minutes and counting,” Tom heard Jazz report. “And L.T., if you’re listening, it’s occurred to me that there might be a reason our little Merchant purchased two alarm clocks. I’ve got two empty boxes here, but only one is used in this particular piece of performance art. If you’ve got this guy’s ear, you might want to ask him where he’s put the second bomb.”
Oh, fuck.
Tom let go of the Merchant, scrambling back to grab his weapon and hold it with both hands, aimed at the man’s forehead.
He pulled himself to his feet and administered scumbag resuscitation by kicking the terrorist hard in the ribs.
The Merchant drew in a shuddering breath.
“Get up,” Tom said. “Hands on your head.”
The man couldn’t do more than push himself onto his hands and knees for several long moments. But time was running out. “Get up!”
“Drop the gun.”
Tom did nothing of the sort. He kept his weapon trained on the Merchant as he turned slightly toward the access door.
It was Terrorist Number Two. Tom recognized him from the photo Mallory had taken. And, oh, double fuck. He had Mallory, his weapon held to her head.
“Drop it or I’ll kill the girl.”
How the hell had this happened?
“Jesus, Mallory,” Tom said.
“Mallory?” David’s voice cut through. “Mal, where are you? Did you leave the van?”
“I’m sorry,” Mal said, too softly for Tom to hear her, but he could read her lips. Her microphone was broken. Jazz was going to hear about these cheapshit headsets, that was for sure. She had a scratch on the side of her face, no doubt from the broken piece of plastic. Her lip was swollen, too. The bastard had hit her.
“Drop. The. Gun.” T2 was starting to lose it.
“Please, Tom, do whatever he says,” David begged him over the headset from down on the fourth floor. “Please don’t let her die.”
“Drop it,” T2 ordered.
If Tom did, they were both dead. He kept his own weapon on the Merchant. “You drop your gun, asshole, or your boss checks out. And the next bullet’s yours, I promise you that.”
“Lieutenant Paoletti, please step a little to your right.” That was Locke’s cool voice. Locke, who was in the church tower with a sniper rifle and the best aim in the U.S. Navy.
Tom stepped right.
He felt the shot whizzing past his cheek, heard it crack, and T2 crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
“Mallory!” David’s cry was anguished. Of course, he didn’t know. He couldn’t see, could only hear the sound of the gunshot.
Mallory was sprayed with blood, but she didn’t faint, didn’t fall. She scooped up T2’s weapon before it even had time to bounce. She held it in both hands, like Tom, aimed directly at the Merchant, also like Tom. Only she aimed the barrel lower, much lower than the man’s forehead.
“Tell David I’m still alive.”
But David was already in the doorway. “Mallory.”
“He called me Mallory,” she said to Tom. “Did you hear that?” She was crying, covered with tears and snot and blood, but she didn’t waver. “David, go back and help Jazz. I’m all right.”
He was crying, too. “I just . . . God, I love you and I thought—”
Mal smiled. “I know. Go.”
“Both of you go,” Tom ordered them. “Get out of here. Now.”
Mallory shook her head. “No, I think I’ll back you up a little longer. You don’t look very good, Tom.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one with the gun.” He looked at the Merchant. Both of the Merchants. Double fuck, indeed. He fought his dizziness. “Tell me where the second bomb is.”
The Merchant’s gaze shifted. Just a little. Just enough. Out to the harbor.
And with a blazing revelation, Tom knew. As he gazed into the son of a bitch’s eyes, he knew the whole plan. He knew how this asshole’s mind worked. The bomb was on the fourth floor, not to do the most structural damage, but rather to act as a shepherding device to push the crowd away from the hotel.
Away from the hotel and down toward the marina.
Where all those little boats were sitting, all in a row. The Merchant had to set only one bomb in one boat, and the rest would blow sky-high, like a chain of firecrackers, one right after another. The entire marina would go up into the biggest terrorist explosion in U.S. history, and anyone within hundreds of yards would go with it.
The Merchant looked up at the blueness of the sky. And then, without warning, he rushed Tom’s gun.
But Tom didn’t need warning. He knew this man too well, knew he’d choose death over capture.
He squeezed the trigger of his weapon and ended the Merchant’s too-long life.
“Locke, Joe, Charles!” Tom’s voice rang clearly over Charles’s headset. “The second bomb’s on a boat, possibly underwater, under the hull, where you won’t even be able to see it.”
Charles could see Alyssa already running across the lawn from the Congregational church. Joe, too, was already down the stairs that led to the boat slips.
But even though Charles’s legs weren’t moving as quickly, his brain was doing just fine. He pushed open the door of the harbormaster’s office and appropriated the guest register, checking the names of all the boats that were currently docked in the visitor slips. It was premium real estate, those visitor slips, bringing a hefty amount of income into the marina, making it possible for regular folks to dock a boat there without having to quadruple mortgage their houses.
He used his finger to go down the list and . . .
There was nothing that jumped out at him. No boat named Merchant’s Prize or something equally obvious.
But there was one thing that caught his eye. The Sea Breeze. At the start of the week, it had been docked in slot A-3. But halfway through, it got moved over to B-7. Now, that was odd, because as far as convenience and ease, A-3 was a better slot. However, as far as blowing up things went, B-7 was smack in the middle of the marina.
“Alyssa, Joe, check B-7,” he said over his radio headset.
But just to be safe, he took all the spare copies of all the
keys that were hanging on the harbormaster’s wall.
Dottie, who worked behind the counter, stood up. “Mr. Ashton, what are you . . . ?”
“Stealing all the visitors’ boats,” he told her crossly. “What do you think I’m doing?”
Navigating the stairs with his walker wasn’t happening, so he tossed the damn thing to the bottom, and went down like a little kid, on the seat of his pants.
Joe searched the inside of the Sea Breeze. And there it was. A bomb. In the head. The timer read seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds, exactly three minutes behind the bomb in the hotel.
Alyssa Locke was right behind him, and she tossed him her radio and headset and dove headfirst into the murky waters of the harbor. She came up coughing, grabbed a lungful of air, and went back down.
He could see Charles, making his way down the steep ramp that led to the B slips.
Alyssa came up, gasping. “He’s right. Tom’s right. This thing’s rigged to blow. The entire hull is wired with explosives.”
“There’s a bomb in the john, too,” Joe told her.
She reached a hand up, and he helped haul her onto the deck. She was heavy for such a little thing. Or maybe he was just getting too old for this.
“It’s probably the timer,” she said, slicking her hair back from her face and going to take a look. “Yeah. See how this wire runs down here and over the side. But this one’s rigged with a failsafe—we cut this wire, and this smaller bomb blows. Which will set off the other bomb.”
She put her headset and radio back on. “L.T., are you there? We’ve located our second bomb, and we’re in serious trouble.”
“I’ve got at least two more minutes to go before I neutralize this bomb,” Jazz’s voice came back. “No way can I get down there and take care of that one, too.”
“I’m on my way,” Tom said.
Charles tossed his walker into the recessed deck of the boat, then swung himself on board. It wasn’t graceful, but it got the job done. “Alyssa,” he said. “Dearest. Jump back into the water and see if the bomb is attached to the inboard motor.”
The Unsung Hero Page 40
