He shifted toward a wall. Freeing himself from the passing crowd, he took off the knapsack and shoved it into a garbage bin. Rejoining the protestors, he was eager to let them propel him to safety. He had plenty of time to get to the van and flee the area. A few seconds after ten, he would press a button on the transmitter in his jacket pocket. If the police frequencies hadn't already set off the detonators, the signal he sent would do the job.
Something made him glance back.
Raoul was at the refuse bin, gaping at the discarded knapsack.
25
When Raoul had started to ask "where," his intention hadn't been to find out where Bowie was going. What he wanted to know was whether he should meet Bowie at the van or whether he was supposed to get to Galveston on his own. Because of their argument, they hadn't finalized their arrangements. The way Raoul felt, he wasn't sure he wanted to meet Bowie at the van. Talking to me like he's a chingado guard in the joint. But as seconds passed, the heat of Raoul's anger lessened. He didn't want trouble between them. The truth was, what Raoul felt for him was what he was supposed to feel for his father.
Nine minutes. Plenty of time to ask him and get back here.
Raoul slipped into the crowd, moving toward the next block, where Bowie would be waiting for ten o'clock to occur. There. Ahead. Raoul saw the lanky man, slightly taller than those around him, flowing with the crowd.
Bowie shifted toward a wall. Exactly where he's supposed to be, Raoul thought, working toward him. But then Raoul frowned, seeing Bowie take off his knapsack. Raoul frowned harder when Bowie shoved the knapsack into a garbage bin. Bowie rejoined the crowd.
Stunned, Raoul came to the garbage bin and gaped at the knapsack Bowie had abandoned. He raised his eyes, searching the crowd. Bowie was glaring back at him.
The force of it made him dizzy. The fury in Bowie's eyes was so overwhelming that Raoul felt shoved. He actually took a step backward, his dizziness intensifying. The world he thought he knew spun. The reality he depended on seemed to ripple beneath his feet, making him unsteady.
At once, another world took its place. A mask seemed to slip from Bowie's face. The man Raoul thought of as a father suddenly became a stranger. Worse than that: an enemy. The rage and hatred on Bowie's face shot across the distance and made Raoul lurch back another step.
Immediately, Bowie pushed through the crowd, hurrying toward him. A terrible heat primed Raoul's muscles. The most searing fear he'd ever known fired his protective instincts and sent him fleeing.
26
No! Carl thought. Shoving protestors out of the way, he charged toward Raoul. The look on his face! He suspects! If he warns the others…
The constant stream of demonstrators held him back. Turning sideways, ramming his shoulder through the crowd, he was reminded of playing in high-school football games, his father yelling drunkenly from the bleachers.
"Hey!" a man said. "Watch where you're going!"
"Out of my way!"
"Don't ram into me, jerk-off!"
The man gasped, struck in the stomach, baffled by the blood streaming from him.
His knife at his side, Carl shoved harder through the oncoming crowd. Ahead, Raoul stayed close to the wall, gaining distance, managing to reach the next block.
A young man with a knapsack saw them coming.
Raoul shouted a warning.
The team member looked confused.
Raoul shouted again.
The team member saw Carl chasing Raoul. Fear tightening his face, he turned and ran.
27
"What's this about?"
In the communications truck, an FBI agent pointed toward a monitor.
"Where?"
"Here. This."
Cavanaugh and Jamie walked toward it.
"Somebody's in an awful hurry to go the wrong way," the agent said.
"Not one person. Three," Jamie noted.
The camera was angled downward from a roof. The screen showed the crowd filling the street, countless protestors shifting away from the conference center. Breaking the pattern, a line of three men charged in the opposite direction, thrusting their way through the demonstrators.
"Seems like the guy in back's chasing the others," the agent said. "Look at how frightened they are. They keep glancing back to see if he's gaining on them."
"And what about this?" Another agent pointed toward a monitor that showed a commotion nearby. People formed a circle around a man scrunched sideways on the pavement. He held his stomach, which was dark with spreading liquid. A woman raised her face and soundlessly screamed.
"Looks like he's been shot," an agent said.
Cavanaugh concentrated on the three men forcing their way south as everyone else went north. "Can you get a closer view of the guy in back, the one who seems to be chasing the others?"
"Sure."
The agent twisted dials. Immediately the camera magnified the man at the rear of the line.
As the face got larger, Cavanaugh felt a chill speed along his nerves. "Not shot. Stabbed."
"How do you know?"
"Because the guy chasing the others is Carl."
28
Eight minutes before ten.
Fighting his way through the crowd, Carl saw another young man with a knapsack. Raoul shouted a warning. When the man, already on edge, looked behind the team members charging toward him and saw the rage on Carl's face, he too broke into a run. Carl shouldered through more protestors.
"Hey, dickhead, watch who you're slamming into," a man said, only to groan and double over as Carl lunged past.
Ahead, Raoul hurried straight ahead while the team members he'd warned dropped their knapsacks and split to the right and left, racing down side streets.
They'll alert the rest of the team, Carl thought in a fury. I trained them to feel they belong to a tightly knit unit. That's how they'll act now, protecting each other.
Because of Raoul. All the effort I spent on him, he's still a punk.
Ramming through the crowd, getting nearer, Carl angrily calculated that he had sufficient time to teach him the consequence of disloyalty.
Ahead, the son of a bitch hurled his knapsack away and shouted to a team member waiting farther along the block.
29
"What are they throwing away? Knapsacks?"
"They seem to be shouting at people at the side of the crowd." Cavanaugh stared at the monitors.
"Men standing against walls," Jamie said. "They all have knapsacks. Here, here, here, and… My God, once you notice them, they seem to be everywhere."
"I hate to imagine what's in them." An agent picked up a microphone. "Surveillance One to all units."
As the agent described what he saw on the screens, Cavanaugh pointed toward the one that showed Carl. "What street is he on?" he asked another agent.
"Girod near Fulton."
Cavanaugh grabbed a lapel microphone and an earbud. "Keep telling me which direction he's taking."
Before Jamie had a chance to think about going with him, Cavanaugh opened the door and jumped to the street.
"Grab the guys with the knapsacks!" the agent said into a microphone. "For God's sake, be careful. We don't know what's in them."
When Jamie jumped to the street, Cavanaugh had disappeared into the crowd.
30
Seven minutes before ten.
Without looking back, Raoul had a visceral sense that Bowie was gaining on him. His stomach felt on fire. His lungs ached. His legs felt wobbly. Although he stayed along a wall, there were still too many people in front of him. Crashing, shoving, he shouted to another team member, "Bowie lied! Something's wrong! Get rid of the knapsack!"
The already-nervous team member seemed to be grateful for the excuse to run. Raoul leapt over the dropped knapsack and veered left onto Fulton Street. The side street had fewer departing protestors, giving Raoul a chance to run faster.