For an instant, they stood frozen. Then the faceless swung his rifle to bear, rocking his weight to his back leg, sighting down the barrel, zeroing in, gloved finger moving, and Cooper could see the path of the bullet, see it like it was drawn in the air, a line right to his chest, and without thinking he flung himself sideways.
Heard the crack of the bullet as he hung in the air, and heard its brothers, the man firing to follow him, the rush of air, the ground rising to meet Cooper, the angel staring at the sky, Cooper’s hands coming up even as he fell, the pistol steady, the man in his sights. They both fired.
The angel wept stone tears.
The commando in black staggered as a hole spiderwebbed his visor.
Cooper hit the ground, the impact uncushioned by grace, knocking the wind from him. Kept the gun up as he watched the man fall.
He’d killed a DAR agent.
It was the first time. He had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t be the last.
Then he was scrambling to his feet and running in a crouch, the chapel nearby now, the ivy waving in the breeze, the stained glass bloody in the evening light. He reached the edge of it, panting, ran around the far side, the bulk of it between him and the assault team, and only a fraction of a mile to the street.
To find Bobby Quinn leaning against the far side of a gravestone, most of his body out of sight behind the stone, a submachine gun braced on it. Leveled straight at Cooper’s chest.
His former partner betrayed no surprise to see him. Had been expecting him. Of course. They’d worked together enough. He knew Cooper liked to double back, to misdirect. So he’d sent the team to cover the obvious routes, and then staked out his hunch.
“Drop the gun. Now.”
Cooper considered making the same play he just had, a wild leap and a midair shot. But the situation was different. The faceless had been exposed and surprised. He’d telegraphed his intent with every muscle. Quinn, on the other hand, was ready and steady, with most of his body—and more important, his body language—hidden. No way to read him if Cooper couldn’t see him.
Besides. Are you going to shoot Bobby Quinn?
“I mean it. Drop the gun.”
Cooper froze. Nervous energy crackling through him, his body rubbery. Had a weird desire to laugh. He dropped the gun. “Hi, Bobby.”
“Lace your hands on your head, then get down on your knees with your ankles crossed.”
Cooper stared at his colleague, his partner in a hundred missions, remembered the dark sense of humor of the man, the way he’d hold a cigarette for two minutes before he’d light it. How many times had they gone in a door together?
“Bobby.” He struggled for words, wanted to explain the situation, the whole thing: going undercover, chasing John Smith, everything he’d learned since. Wanted half an hour in a pub, somewhere with oak and worn stools, coasters with the Guinness logo. Wanted to explain, to lay out everything that had happened, to make the man understand.
And then the laugh did hit him, nothing he could do about it. How many times had his targets wanted the same thing? How many times had he heard them say…
“Do it now!”
Cooper said, “I didn’t do the things they say, Bobby.” The colossal humor of it almost overwhelming him. What was the phrase the Irish used?
You want to make God laugh, you make a plan.
“Lace your hands behind—”
Cooper shook his head. “Can’t do it.”
“You think I won’t shoot you?”
“I don’t know.” But I do know that if I let you take me, I’m a dead man. And this evidence, whatever it is, it will vanish. Drew Peters will go on fostering a war. And I can’t live with that.
Even if it means I have to die with it.
“I guess we’re going to find out.” Slowly, hands at his sides, he started walking. Not toward Bobby, at a tangent. No time to talk, no time to explain. The rest of the tactical response team would have heard the gunfire, would be closing in on their dead comrade. They’d be here in seconds.
“Goddamn it, Cooper—”
“I’m sorry.” He kept walking but met his partner’s eyes as he did. “I promise you, I’m not who they say I am. But I can’t stay to explain.”
Quinn lowered the barrel of the gun a notch, pulled the trigger. A chunk of turf an inch in front of Cooper’s foot detonated. “I know you can shoot out my legs, Bobby. But that’s the same as killing me. You know those men won’t hesitate. And if it’s going to happen, I’d rather it was you.”
“Cooper—”
“Make your choice, Bobby.” He stopped then. Stared at the man. Trying to read his fate in the set of his partner’s eyes, the twitch of the muscle in one cheek, the tension in his neck.
Finally, Bobby said, “Goddamn you.” He turned, straightened. Put up his gun. “You’ve got three seconds.”
A rush of emotion swept through Cooper. For a moment, he wondered if he would have made the same choice if their situations had been reversed. If he’d have had the courage to be a person instead of an agent.
A question for another time. He took the head start and set off at a sprint.
It was more like five seconds before Quinn started yelling that Cooper was over there, that he was by the chapel, and by that time the fence and the street and the wide world was in front of him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Cooper stalked the DC night with a bomb in his pocket and his head on fire.
Overhead, faint, he could hear the sound of an airship, flying low. Looking for him. There would be a sniper on board, and a high-res camera package, and if they spotted him, he’d never hear the shot.
Relax. You’re just a man walking down the street. Just like all the others in this crowd. Don’t run, don’t call attention to yourself, and the odds of them spotting you are nil.
Well. Slim.
Any gunfight you walked away from was at least a partial success. But this one felt more partial than he’d like. Until he’d found the drive, he’d harbored hope that maybe Smith had lied, that the things Cooper had done were justified.
He couldn’t shelter that hope any longer. Peters had sent a hit team. No hesitation, no orders to arrest. Just kill and clean it up later. Drew Peters was the bad guy. Which made John Smith…well, who knew what it made John Smith.
Worse, Cooper had hoped to get in and out unspotted. To have time to review the video before the DAR even knew he was back in town. But now Peters would not only know that his precious insurance had been taken—he would know who had taken it.
What would that mean? What would a man like Peters do next?
Cooper froze, every muscle locking like stone. Someone bumped into him from behind, and he spun, hands ready. A sad-looking man in a business suit jumped, his eyes wide. “Hey, man, watch where you’re…”
But Cooper was already moving. Sprinting, despite the risk. A mini-mall was ahead on the right, one of those indoor places with a dozen fading businesses that never seemed to quite go under. He yanked open the door and stepped inside.
Muzak, and the multilayered reek of the candle shop by the entrance. A handful of shoppers wandering like zombies. His boot heels rang on the polished floor. A tanning place, a convenience store, a hair salon, a bright hallway leading to the bathrooms. Opposite them he found a payphone with a frayed cord, the phone book stolen long ago. He dug in his pockets. No change.
Back to the convenience store. He threw a ten at the vigilant-eyed Pakistani behind the register. “Quarters. I need quarters.”