It’s like entering one of Dante’s lower circles, Edie thought as they entered the domed rotunda a few seconds later. Everywhere she looked, swarms of people were haphazardly congregating in undulating lines that meandered in the direction of the main entrance. In front of the exit doors, a handful of uniformed guards quickly patted down every museum patron before permitting them to depart the premises. Edie assumed they were searching for the armed gunman.
“It would appear that all roads lead to Rome,” Caedmon remarked as he steered the wheelchair away from the disorderly crowd.
Like the courtyard garden they’d earlier passed through, the rotunda was jungle humid on account of all the potted plants. Afraid Padgham’s killer might be lurking in the vicinity, Edie tucked her chin into her chest, making herself as unobtrusive as possible.
No sooner did they clear the rotunda than Caedmon took off running.
Bronze sculptures. Flemish still lifes. Della Robbias.
Famous works of art passed at such a dizzying speed, Edie feared she would upchuck the contents of her stomach.
“Slow down, will ya? You’re giving me a bad case of motion sickness.”
If Caedmon heard her, he gave no indication, the man fast proving himself a well-spoken hard-ass.
Having covered three-fourths of the distance of the museum in less than two minutes, Caedmon wheeled her into the West Garden Court, a mirror image of the courtyard at the opposite end of the museum. Swerving sharply to the left, he somehow managed to maintain control as the chair took the turn on two rubberized wheels.
A few seconds later, Edie could see the marble wall that marked the end of the main hall.
“Quick! Put on the brakes!” she screeched, a full-length statue of St. John of the Cross standing sentry directly in front of her. She grabbed hold of the padded arms and held on tight as Caedmon brought the wheelchair to an abrupt halt mere inches from the stern-faced saint.
“Bloody hell.” He turned his head from side to side. “There’s supposed to be a lift at the end of—Ah, yes, there she be, starboard bow.” Caedmon rolled the wheelchair to the elevator that was tucked away to the right of them.
Edie reached out and pushed the button; the metal doors instantly slid open. With no room to turn the wheelchair around, she sat facing the back wall of the elevator. Within moments, they’d be free of the museum, via the Seventh Street exit located on the lower level.
Readying herself for the last cavalry charge, she opened her tote bag. Quickly, she rummaged through it, her hand bumping against the now soft-sided box of melted spinach.
“What are you doing?”
Edie spared Caedmon a quick, upward glance. “I’m searching for the car keys.”
“Driving your vehicle would be ill-advised.”
Placing her arm over the back of the chair, she twisted her upper body so she could look him in the eye. “You’re kidding, right? The Jeep is our only means of escape.”
“How do you think the gunman found you? I’ll warrant it was no mean guess.”
“Maybe it was an educated guess. And let us not forget about the old lucky guess,” she retorted. Then, realizing how childish she sounded, “Okay, he followed me here. But I can promise you that he won’t be following us when we leave. I know this town like the back of my hand. Trust me, Caedmon. I can get us out of here.”
She watched as he mulled over her proposal. He was tempted; she could see it in his eyes.
“There’s a back service alley one block away at Federal Triangle. If we’re being followed, it’s the perfect place to lose a tail.”
The elevator door opened with a melodic ping. Caedmon backed the wheelchair out of the elevator and turned it toward the Seventh Street lobby, where the scene was almost identical to what they’d witnessed in the rotunda.
Seeing all the hustle and bustle, the mass confusion, the absolute chaos that reigned within the marble-walled space, Edie breathed a sigh of relief.
The end was in sight.
CHAPTER 18
Holding a museum map in front of him, Boyd Braxton rechecked the exits.
He had Sanchez on the Mall exit, Harliss at Constitution, Napier across the street at the East Wing, Agee manning the Fourth Street exit, and Riggins posted at the Seventh Street exit. Experienced war fighters, one and all, each of ’em was equipped with a Ka-Bar knife and two ID photos: one of a dark curly-haired bitch and the other of a tall redheaded bastard. And the best part? To the man, they were decked out in D.C. police uniforms. Given that the National Gallery of Art was swarming with every badge the city could rustle up, no one would give them a second glance.
The op in play, Boyd secured a communications device to his right ear, enabling him to speak to all five of his men. “You’ve got your orders: take out both targets. Edged weapons only. We want this to go down swift, silent, and deadly.”
“Copy that, Boss Man,” Riggins replied, speaking for the group. An expert at close-quarter fighting, Riggins knew how to wield a knife with lethal proficiency. Better yet, he enjoyed wielding a blade. Close-range combat appealed to a particular kind of warrior: the kind who liked to look his victim in the eye when he went in for the kill.
“Okay, boys and girls. Let’s go have some fun,” Boyd said, grinning, confident that this time there would be no more fuck-ups. “And don’t forget . . . we go with God.”
“Amen, brother.” This from Sanchez, a former Army Ranger and Afghanistan vet well experienced in slaying the godless.
As he headed toward the Fourth Street exit, Boyd glanced at the ring he wore on his right hand; the cluster of silver crosses was a constant reminder that he and his men were soldiers in God’s army. Holy warriors not unlike the crusaders of old. The colonel often spoke of the men who, a thousand years ago, went forth to conquer the Holy Land. Hugues of Payens. Godfrey of Bouillon. Yves of Faillon. Boyd felt a kindred link to those knights of old who fought with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other. The sword he had great experience with, having spent fifteen years in the Corps. The Bible was new to him; his old man had not held the Good Book in very high regard. In fact, Joe Don Braxton hadn’t held much of anything except a bottle of Old Crow. And he’d held that damned near every night. Rumor had it there was a half-drunk fifth of bourbon clutched between Joe Don’s thighs the night he drove his Dodge pickup into a stand of poplar trees.
Approaching the museum lobby, Boyd jutted his chin at the Rosemont man standing sentry near the coat room; Agee was a good man to have in a tight fix. The silent greeting was returned with an innocuous nod.
Not about to stand in line, Boyd slid his hand into his coat pocket and removed a leather wallet. Flipping it open, he thrust the D.C. Metropolitan Police badge at the same guard he’d tinned when he first entered the museum.
“Detective Wilson,” the guard said by way of greeting. “Hell of a mess we’ve got on our hands, huh?”
“Just another day in Sin City. Anyone get a look at the bastard who fired the shots?”
“As a matter of fact, one of the museum patrons was able to videotape some of it on his cell phone.”
Hearing that, Boyd froze.
Within hours his face would be plastered on BOLOs, You-Tube, and all of the major news outlets.
“Glad to hear it,” he replied, his facial muscles taut with a fake smile. “Keep up the good work”—he glanced at the man’s name badge—“Officer Milligan.” He had no idea if security guards were addressed as Officer, and at the moment he didn’t much care. The fake grin replaced with a grimace, he headed for the plate glass doors, shoving aside a couple of jabbering tourists.