The blurry image of the cleaning cart was still in front of the men’s room, so Becker turned again toward the door marked damas. He thought he heard sounds inside. He knocked. “Hola?”
Silence.
Probably Megan, he thought. She had five hours to kill before her flight and had said she was going to scrub her arm till it was clean.
“Megan?” he called. He knocked again. There was no reply. Becker pushed the door open. “Hello?” He went in. The bathroom appeared empty. He shrugged and walked to the sink.
The sink was still filthy, but the water was cold. Becker felt his pores tighten as he splashed the water in his eyes. The pain began to ease, and the fog gradually lifted. Becker eyed himself in the mirror. He looked like he’d been crying for days.
He dried his face on the sleeve of his jacket, and then it suddenly occurred to him. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten where he was. He was at the airport! Somewhere out thereon the tarmac, in one of the Seville airport’s three private hangars, there was a Learjet 60 waiting to take him home. The pilot had stated very clearly, I have orders to stay here until you return.
It was hard to believe, Becker thought, that after all this, he had ended up right back where he’d started. What am I waiting for? he laughed. I’m sure the pilot can radio a message to Strathmore!
Chuckling to himself, Becker glanced in the mirror and straightened his tie. He was about to go when the reflection of something behind him caught his eye. He turned. It appeared to be one end of Megan’s duffel, protruding from under a partially open stall door.
“Megan?” he called. There was no reply. “Megan?”
Becker walked over. He rapped loudly on the side of the stall. No answer. He gently pushed the door. It swung open.
Becker fought back a cry of horror. Megan was on the toilet, her eyes rolled skyward. Dead center of her forehead, a bullet hole oozed bloody liquid down her face.
“Oh, Jesus!” Becker cried in shock.
“Esta muerta,” a barely human voice croaked behind him. “She’s dead.”
It was like a dream. Becker turned.
“Senor Becker?” the eerie voice asked.
Dazed, Becker studied the man stepping into the rest room. He looked oddly familiar.
“Soy Hulohot,” the killer said. “I am Hulohot.” The misshapen words seemed to emerge from the depths of his stomach. Hulohot held out his hand. “El anillo. The ring.”
Becker stared blankly.
The man reached in his pocket and produced a gun. He raised the weapon and trained it on Becker’s head. “El anillo.”
In an instant of clarity, Becker felt a sensation he had never known. As if cued by some subconscious survival instinct, every muscle in his body tensed simultaneously. He flew through the air as the shot spat out. Becker crashed down on top of Megan. A bullet exploded against the wall behind him.
“Mierda!” Hulohot seethed. Somehow, at the last possible instant, David Becker had dived out of the way. The assassin advanced.
Becker pulled himself off the lifeless teenager. There were approaching footsteps. Breathing. The cock of a weapon.
“Adios,” the man whispered as he lunged like a panther, swinging his weapon into the stall.
The gun went off. There was a flash of red. But it was no tblood. It was something else. An object had materialized as if out of nowhere, sailing out of the stall and hitting the killer in the chest, causing his gun to fire a split second early. It was Megan’s duffel.
Becker exploded from the stall. He buried his shoulder in the man’s chest and drove him back into the sink. There was a bone‑crushing crash. A mirror shattered. The gun fell free. The two men collapsed to the floor. Becker tore himself away and dashed for the exit. Hulohot scrambled for his weapon, spun, and fired. The bullet ripped into the slamming bathroom door.
The empty expanse of the airport concourse loomed before Becker like an uncrossable desert. His legs surged beneath him faster than he’d ever known they could move.
As he skidded into the revolving door, a shot rang out behind him. The glass panel in front of him exploded in a shower of glass. Becker pushed his shoulder into the frame and the door rotated forward. A moment later he stumbled onto the pavement outside.
A taxi stood waiting.
“Dejame entrar!” Becker screamed, pounding on the locked door. “Let me in!” The driver refused; his fare with the wire‑rim glasses had asked him to wait. Becker turned and saw Hulohot streaking across he concourse, gun in hand. Becker eyed his little Vespa on the sidewalk. I’m dead.
Hulohot blasted through the revolving doors just in time to see Becker trying in vain to kick start his Vespa. Hulohot smiled and raised his weapon.
The choke! Becker fumbled with the levers under the gas tank. He jumped on the starter again. It coughed and died.
“El anillo. The ring.” The voice was close.
Becker looked up. He saw the barrel of a gun. The chamber was rotating. He rammed his foot on the starter once again.
Hulohot’s shot just missed Becker’s head as the little bike sprang to life and lurched forward. Becker hung on for his life as the motorcycle bounced down a grassy embankment and wobbled around the corner of the building onto the runway.
Enraged, Hulohot raced toward his waiting taxi. Seconds later, the driver lay stunned on the curb watching his taxi peel out in a cloud of dust.
CHAPTER 82
As the implications of the Commander’s phone call to Security began to settle on the dazed Greg Hale, he found himself weakened by a wave of panic. Security is coming! Susan began to slip away. Hale recovered, clutching at her midsection, pulling her back.
“Let me go!” she cried, her voice echoing though the dome.
Hale’s mind was in overdrive. The commander’s call had taken him totally by surprise. Strathmore phoned Security! He’s sacrificing his plans for Digital Fortress!
Not in a million years had Hale imagined the commander would let Digital Fortress slip by. This back door was the chance of a lifetime.
As the panic rushed in, Hale’s mind seemed to play tricks on him. He saw the barrel of Strathmore’s Berretta everywhere he looked. He began to spin, holding Susan close, trying to deny the commander a shot. Driven by fear, Hale dragged Susan blindly toward the stairs. In five minutes the lights would come on, the doors would open, and a SWAT team would pour in.
“You’re hurting me!” Susan choked. She gasped for breath as she stumbled through Hale’s desperate pirouettes.
Hale considered letting her go and making a mad dash for Strathmore’s elevator, but it was suicide. He had no password. Besides, once outside the NSA without a hostage, Hale knew he was as good as dead. Not even his Lotus could outrun a fleet of NSA helicopters. Susan is the only thing that will keep Strathmore from blowing me off the road!
“Susan,” Hale blurted, dragging her toward the stairs. “Come with me! I swear I won’t hurt you!”
As Susan fought him, Hale realized he had new problems. Even if he somehow managed to get Strathmore’s elevator open and take Susan with him, she would undoubtedly fight him all the way out of the building. Hale knew full well that Strathmore’s elevator made only one stop: “the Underground Highway,” a restricted labyrinth of underground access tunnels through which NSA powerbrokers moved in secrecy. Hale had no intention of ending up lost in the basement corridors of the NSA with a struggling hostage. It was a death trap. Even if he got out, he realized, he had no gun. How would he get Susan across the parking lot? How would he drive?
It was the voice of one of Hale’s marine, military‑strategy professors that gave him his answer: