I can take that bastard down, he mused. All I have to do is get close to him, or trick him into getting close to me. But I’d hate to come up empty, stuck with a gun that doesn’t shoot.
Ibrahim Noor and the albino man were long gone.
They’d slipped through the curtained door and had not returned. Soon after they departed, the slaughter began. Now, on the podium, Ahern’s ravings about interfaith harmony and reconciliation morphed into howls of tortured agony.
Bound tightly to a sturdy wooden chair, shirt ripped, clerical collar hanging limply, James Wendell Ahern struggled vainly while two boys, no more than eleven years old, took turns ripping at his throat with a rusty saw.
Holman looked away.
Among the swirling, bloodthirsty throng, he caught brief glimpses of the Cranstons. The woman hung limply from her ropes, and though Mr. Cranston bled from scores of wounds, he was still conscious.
Dani Taylor had been screaming for several minutes.
The young women of the compound seemed to derive a special relish in her torment. They punched and kicked the teenager, smeared the makeup they found in her purse on her face, and tore at her clothing.
A particularly vicious slap from a heavyset black woman tipped her chair over, and the girl vanished in a swarm of flapping robes and kicking feet.
Holman strained against his own bonds, until loops of rope sagged onto his lap and tumbled to the blood-soaked floor. He was free now, but pretended to be trapped while he scanned the room, searching for a way out.
An abrupt silence ensued when Ahern stopped screaming.
A moment later, the crowd gasped when an older boy displayed the Reverend’s head, the eyes still twitching in their sockets. The youth swung the grisly trophy by its hair, then tossed the head on top of the stack piling up in the corner.
Several women gripped Mrs. Cranston, and Joe protested, cursing a blue streak and vowing to kill them all.
The old man with the Uzi stepped in front of Mr. Cranston’s chair and fired it in the air, to silence the old man.
Holman almost smiled. That relic still works! And now I know how to get that bastard clutching the Uzi over here to me.
Two burly women untied the ropes and hauled Abby Cranston out of her chair. She was alive, but only semicon-scious. Blood trickled from her nose and ears, the signs of head trauma. Mr. Cranston cried out again. This time women wielding rakes and hoes beat him senseless.
As women in burkas surged past him, carrying Mrs.
Cranston by her arms, Holman shot out his foot and connected with an ankle. A robed woman cried out, then whirled and struck him.
With one eye on the old man, Holman began to curse the woman, then he launched into a string of unspeakable blasphemies calculated to enrage his captors.
It worked.
The old man rushed to his side. But he didn’t aim the Uzi at the ceiling. He placed it against Holman’s temple.
Brice refused to be silenced. His taunts became more vicious, until the old man twisted the gun to pummel him with its butt — then Holman moved.
He shot out his arms, one grabbing the old man’s bony wrist, the other his wattled throat. Holman squeezed until the man’s throat was crushed. Then he yanked the gun out of the man’s dead fingers.
The women reared back, but one young boy lunged for him. Still partly ensnared by the tangling ropes, Holman shot the youth in the face.
A woman howled, dropped to her knees beside the corpse. The rest of the robed wall seemed to withdraw.
Holman spotted a man clutching a double-barreled shotgun and killed him, too. Another armed man fumbled with the rifle on his shoulder, and Holman blew the top of his head off. Finally, Holman shot the kid who’d brandished the Reverend’s head — just because he felt like it.
The woman beside the dead boy clawed at Holman’s shoes, and he kicked her aside. Waving his Uzi at the quak-ing horde, he grabbed clips of spare ammunition from the dead man’s belt.
Holman was about to bolt for the exit when he saw Dani Taylor on the floor. Her chair was broken, and she’d untangled herself from the ropes. Now she was struggling to rise.
“Wait… Take me with you,” she pleaded.
“Come on, then,” Brice yelled.
A woman lunged for Holman, and he shot her at point-blank range. Enraged howls greeted the move, but the mob retreated.
Brice grabbed Dani’s hand. It was slippery with blood, but he managed to haul the girl to her feet. He pushed Dani behind him and nudged her toward the nearest exit.
“Wait,” Dani gasped, snatching the shotgun from the dead man’s grip. Brice was surprised when she waved the weapon at their captors, effectively covering his back.
“You know how to use that?” Brice called.
“I live on a farm. I can fire a shotgun,” Dani replied.
Another woman took a swing at Brice with a rusty rake, and he shot her, too. Robes flapping, the dead woman spun backward, into the arms of her comrades.
Dani and Holman bolted through the door, into the harsh afternoon sun. They were on main street, where Holman hoped to board the church bus. But the vehicle had been tipped over on its side.
Cursing, he grabbed Dani’s arm and they dashed down the dusty street.
“I want you to go that way,” Brice said pointing. “Get to the woods beyond those mobile homes and you’ll have a chance to get out.”
Dani took a step forward. Brice gripped her arm.
“Take this,” he cried, shoving his cell phone into the girl’s pocket.
“What is it?”
“Intelligence,” Holman cried. “Images, recordings.
Give it to the FBI. Do you understand? The FBI. Don’t trust anyone from CTU—”
“Huh?”
“CTU. The Counter Terrorist Unit. They’ve been compromised. Promise me you’ll give that phone to the FBI and no one else.”
The girl nodded, Brice noticed a chunk of blond hair had been yanked from her scalp. “The FBI, I got it,” she said nervously.
Holman pushed her. “Go!” he commanded.
Dani took off in a run toward the line of mobile homes in the distance. Holman whirled to face the Community Center. Legs braced, he aimed at a pair of angry women and an old man who stumbled through the door.
He fired once, bringing down the man. Then Brice fled the scene, fumbling with a clip to reload.
Cries battered Holman’s ears as an enraged mob streamed out of the Community Center. Someone fired a shot that whizzed over his head. They chased after him, and Holman swerved onto the road that led to the factory.
Good, you dumb bastards, he thought. Follow me and Dani will get away clean…
In the cool darkness of the brick-lined coffeehouse, Tony Almeida studied the woman across the table while he sipped his fourth espresso. Judith Foy fidgeted in her chair while she nursed her third iced tea.
The Deputy Director was wearing a navy-blue tracksuit, no-name sneakers, and a knockoff New York Yankees cap meant to hide the bandages on her head. Tony was no fashion guru, but he had grabbed what he thought was appropriate at a discount store on a shabby block of clothing and apparel shops in the Central Ward, while Judith Foy cowered in the hospital gown, inside the stall of a McDon-ald’s restroom.
Securing clothing was their first priority after the escape, and Tony had handled that situation well and efficiently. He was having less success convincing the Deputy Director of the New York Division to turn over the intelligence she’d gathered to analysts at CTU Headquarters.
Every time he broached the subject, Agent Foy changed the topic of conversation. Now she peered across the table with an expression that bordered on admiration.