Running over a front lawn in near darkness with his eyesight still temporarily diminished, he crashed into someone large. Both men fell away from each other but quickly got to their feet. The man opposite Will had a handgun and was raising it to shoot Will in the head. He was one of the assailants. Will was a fraction of a second quicker, shot him in the leg, dashed forward, grabbed him, spun him around, kicked the man’s gun away after he dropped it, and placed the muzzle of his pistol under the man’s chin.
He could have just as easily killed him, but needed him alive to act as a human shield against the second assailant, who was now walking fast toward him with his handgun held in both hands at eye level.
Will backed away, gripping his captive with all his strength, dragging him because the injured hostile’s leg was completely useless, ignoring his moans of pain as he kept his eyes fixed on the encroaching killer. “I’ll shoot him again if you come any closer!”
“Will you now?” The man was under a lamppost, his face fully visible. “That would be a shame.”
Irish accent.
Who the hell were these guys?
Will moved faster. “Back off!”
“We’ve not come all this way to back off from anything.”
The moment the Irishman had said the words, Will knew in an instant what the assailant was going to do. He released his grip on his captive and dived right just as three rounds sliced through the captive’s chest and exited his back. Had he remained standing behind him, Will would now be dead.
He was dealing with men who’d shoot through each other to kill him.
Jumping to his feet, he sprinted away, zigzagging as rounds raced through the air, narrowly missing him. Once on the other side of the road, he threw himself behind a low wall and trained his weapon back across the street to where he’d last seen his pursuer.
His eyes were back to normal; he could see everything.
Police sirens were loud at one end of the street. Will frantically glanced in that direction and saw three cop cars, then four. He glanced back and saw the Irishman drag his dead colleague into his car, get into the driver’s seat, and accelerate away.
The act was incredibly brave, because it wasted valuable seconds of his getaway. It was also the professional thing to do — remove as much compromising material as possible from the scene of a fight, including dead colleagues.
But the cop cars now stood a very good chance of catching up with the Irishman.
Will couldn’t let that happen.
He strode out into the middle of the street and barked, “Get back inside!” as Marsha Gage’s husband opened his front door.
Will stood stock-still as he fired controlled shots at the cop cars.
Some of his rounds hit tires; others engine blocks. All of the vehicles swerved out of control, hitting white picket fences and each other before shuddering to a halt. The cops got out of their damaged cars, but they were too far away to pose a threat to Will.
He turned and ran from them.
The Irishman’s car was now out of sight.
As Will escaped into the night, he knew there’d be at least another two men in the team he’d confronted tonight. They were watching Gage with the hope that her efforts would lead them to Will. Two on surveillance; two off. That’s how it worked. And that meant there were three killers still out there who were not only highly trained, but also utterly ruthless. Will doubted he’d be able to take on all three of them. Together, they’d be too good. He stood no chance of speaking to Marsha Gage while they were watching her; the odds of him confronting Ed Parker were now ridiculous; and the probability that he would survive the next day was near zero.
Probably the men who’d attacked him tonight belonged to Antaeus and were his insurance that Will was killed even if the FBI failed to get him.
Either way, there was no doubt in Will’s mind that they were hired assassins.
Antaeus and Ferryman had won.
Will had lost.
Unless he could pull off what he was planning.
A piece of utter madness.
Colorado Avenue was in chaos as Marsha drove home. Cop cars were everywhere, their lights flashing; police officers were on foot, moving back and forth between the numerous residents who were standing outside their homes wearing coats, blankets, or nightgowns.
An officer banged his flashlight on the bonnet of her car and shouted, “Ma’am — stop!”
She did what he told her to do and lowered her window. “What’s happened?”
“You can’t drive along here.” The officer looked young, and the tone of his voice was both aggressive and nervous. “There’s been an incident.”
“Incident?” Marsha looked toward her home, feeling panic. “Is anyone hurt?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
Marsha turned off her engine and got out of her car. The officer shouted, “Ma’am, get back in your vehicle!”
Marsha looked up and down the road.
“Ma’am!” The officer had his hand on his holster and looked completely unsure what to do.
She saw her husband emerge from their home, and called out to him, “Paul! The kids?”
Paul held a hand over his eyes and squinted in her direction. “Marsha. Thank God! They’re fine. No one’s hurt.”
The cop repeated, “Ma’am. Get back in your vehicle.”
Marsha spun to face him and pulled out her ID. “My name’s Agent Marsha Gage, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I live on this street and have more right to be here tonight than anyone in uniform.”
The cop looked terrified.
By contrast, Marsha was furious. “Whoever’s the highest-ranking officer here had better tell me what the fuck’s happened outside my home!”
Will entered the tiny apartment in the outskirts of D.C., smelled must as he turned on the light, and felt sorrow that the person who’d been here before him was Ellie Hallowes. A tear ran down his face as he saw that she’d made up the single bed and had placed some granola energy bars and a can of Coca-Cola on its sheets.
He moved to the sole window in the place and heard police sirens and helicopters all around the city. They wanted him. Needed his head.
On the center of the bed was a plastic bag. He tore it open and emptied the contents onto the floor. Some of the items that Ellie had procured during the last three weeks of her being in D.C. were not needed. Others were most certainly what he required for tomorrow.
Goodness knows how Ellie had gotten them.
He looked at the bed and wondered if Ellie had lain in it.
He lay down on top of the sheets and held the can of cola over his chest as he closed his eyes and thought about drifting through the sky above Norway’s northern archipelago.
The image faded and was replaced by a long and bustling shopping thoroughfare.
Wisconsin Avenue.
Would Ellie be there at ten fifteen tomorrow morning?
He’d be crazy to find out.
THIRTY-THREE
The following morning, Major Dickie Mountjoy placed his handcrafted replica of the Cutty Sark on Kensington Palace’s Round Pond and smiled as he watched a cold breeze catch its sails and glide it across the water. It had taken him nearly a year to construct the hull, cut and stitch the sails, and create figurines that represented the real sailors who’d manned the tea clipper as it took provisions to the colonies in record-breaking times, before the advent of the Suez Canal made routes shorter and the invention of steamships made the likes of the Sark obsolete.