“No,” I fired back. “But he’s here. He used it to get past one of your roadblocks on Nineteenth Street.”
“Where? Are you sure?”
It was pointless. I knew Romita wouldn’t act based solely on my assumption. Besides, maybe it was too late. There wasn’t much they could do. Rushing the president back out of there might expose him to even more danger, what with the heightened tension around him and the agents’ readiness to draw weapons and fire.
I brought up my wrist mike. “Nick. Where are you?”
“Just got to the command unit,” he replied. “I’m with Sokolov.”
“Find Everett. Help him convince Romita this is real. They need to get POTUS to safety.”
“Got it.”
I found the entrance to the school’s parking lot tucked away by the far side of the building, in a gap between some trees. I crossed the street and tucked into it.
He was here. He was definitely here.
Moving briskly, I shoved the extra earbud into my ear before slipping on the helmet and strapping it on tightly. Then I pulled out my Hi-Power, flicked the safety off, and chambered a round.
I was hugging the building, focused on the open area beyond the alley that sat directly behind the hotel. I could see some parked school buses at the far end of the lot, to my right. I couldn’t see what was beyond the building, to my left, the area that backed up to the rear of the Hilton.
Everett’s voice came back in my ear.
“Reilly. The president is inside. I repeat, the president is inside. All federal agents are maintaining the perimeter. Romita is inside and coordinating from the ballroom.”
“Copy that,” I said, low, into my mike.
“Do you have confirmation yet?”
“No,” I replied tersely. “But it might be too late by the time I do.”
“Standing by,” was all he came back with.
Dammit.
I crept up to the corner of the building and looked out. There was a playground to my left. It led to the basketball court. Then on the far side, right at the edge of the property, by the wall of a low-rise apartment complex, I saw a silver minivan. It was facing the buses, its tail end facing the rear of the hotel.
Its rear door was slung upward, wide open.
I could also see a silhouette in the driver’s seat.
Koschey.
A deathly quiet had descended on the area around me while my comms bud was crackling with rapid-fire chatter of agents reporting positions and statuses.
“Everett,” I rasped into my mike. “I can see him. He’s here. Do you have POTUS locked down?”
“Hang on,” Aparo replied. “He’s with Romita.”
I pictured Everett arguing with the director of the Secret Service while the president and his guests were having a whale of a time as the proceedings got under way, none of them having a clue that they were only a hairsbreadth from being turned into murderers, from having their humanity stripped away and being turned into nothing but instinctual beasts waging close-quarter warfare until the last man was left standing.
“Everett, get him locked down, goddammit,” I hissed. “Get those helmets on.”
“I’m trying,” Everett shot back.
I quickly ran through my options. There was about forty yards of open terrain between me and the minivan. Too far to score a hit, too wide an area to cross. Koschey would take me out before I got halfway there.
I had to try it.
I leaned out, scoping the terrain, picking out potential cover I could use on the way. Then I saw Koschey’s hand edge out of the car’s side window and almost instantly, a bullet punched into the brick wall inches from my face, spraying debris all around me.
I sprang out and put three quick rounds in his windshield and ducked back into cover.
Then I felt something happening inside my head.
73
At first, it was like an electric pulse had danced across the inside of my skull, like a tiny Taser had reached in and tapped my eardrums and gone in deeper. Then I started to feel dizzy and I felt my eyes going in and out of focus.
Koschey had switched it on, and I was too close to it.
Sokolov’s makeshift protection wasn’t blocking it all out.
Koschey wasn’t shooting back, nor was he coming for me. I knew he was in no rush. He assumed I’d soon be under the effect of the device. It would make me mad with rage, irrationally aggressive. And in my crazed state, I wouldn’t be thinking tactically. I’d just break cover and rush him mindlessly-literally-and he’d be able to pick me off without even looking while the Hilton ballroom would be turning into a shooting gallery, with the president on the podium being the grand prize.
I had to focus. Concentrate. Try to block it out. But I couldn’t. It was the weirdest feeling. I could feel my consciousness draining away, Sokolov’s waves just choking it out of me.
In a matter of seconds, I’d be under its spell.
AT THE EDGE OF the Hilton’s ballroom, Aparo felt the discomfort in his ears as he clutched his helmet and watched the intense argument going on between Everett and Romita.
Reilly was right, he thought. It was happening.
He scanned left and right, his mind racing, desperate for a way to stop the inevitable. He knew Romita would be a hard-ass, knew Everett would have a tough time getting him to do what he needed to do-and even if he did, the odds were against them. The killer signal would still, in all likelihood, get through.
He needed something else and he needed it fast, otherwise he and everyone else around him would soon be dead.
He had to help Reilly. That was the only thing he could do. Help him take down Koschey.
He ran up the stairs and out the lobby and was about to radio Reilly to find out the quickest way there when he spotted something he’d missed.
A black Chevy Suburban, part of the presidential motorcade, just behind the two Cadillacs.
Not just any Suburban.
This one had two big collinear antennas mounted on its roof.
Aparo dashed toward it.
I COULD SENSE AN anger swelling up inside me, a primal anger at nothing specific, and yet everything at the same time. I was desperate to block it out, desperate to do anything to keep control of my senses, but I was helpless and could only wait for control over my mind to be ripped away from me.
I didn’t dare think of what might be happening in the ballroom.
I forced myself to focus on the situation again, my besieged mind racing for a solution. I couldn’t charge him, not given how good a shot he was, not given his tactical advantage. He was manning his fort, and I was a foot soldier looking to charge across the trenches. Never a winning strategy. I needed something else. Something to bridge that advantage gap.
I scanned around, seconds flying past.
The buses. Sitting there about thirty yards away from me.
There was a low wall separating the parking lot from the playground, around halfway to the buses. I figured I could break the journey in half by taking cover there.
I also heard some shots fired from beyond, along with a solitary shout. Then another. The microwaves were starting to have an effect.
It was time to stop thinking and just move.
I sprang to my feet and darted across the open asphalt, shooting for cover before slamming into the side of the wall and crouching low. I caught my breath and was about to cover the second leg when several bullets slammed into the wall around me. They weren’t coming from Koschey. Confused, I spun and raised my gun, panning across to where I thought they’d come from. And I saw Larisa coming up the driveway from the street, gun raised, advancing toward me-and still firing.
She was wearing her helmet, but it wasn’t doing its job. Sokolov’s hasty efforts in the chopper were obviously not keeping the signal out, not as well as mine was. Either that or she just wanted to kill me.