He steadied her against him. As the vehicles had come shooting onto Sharp Street, he’d noted that they were compact sedans similar to the cars he’d seen behind the building from Conroy. He’d also glimpsed the first vehicle’s driver through his windshield and registered his clenched, fixated expression.
“Ryan?”
Kealey was quiet. That obsessive look on the driver’s face. He’d seen similar ones before, and they had never signified anything good.
“Ryan?”
He shot her a glance. “I should have checked those sons of bitches out,” he said.
“Who?”
He jerked his head back the way they’d come. “Those sedans. What the hell were they doing behind the building?”
She stared at him, frightened and confused.
“The cars, the driver, the lack of any stickers on the windows or license plates-they smelled of Feds,” he said. “So why were they leaving? ”
Allison’s phone pinged.
“It’s Colin,” she said. “The dust is starting to settle. He says he’s near the men’s room just outside the food area.”
Kealey stood there a heartbeat longer, his eyes disgusted and angry. Then, mindful of the nearby police sirens, he reached under his jacket for his Sig, thumbed its decock lever, and held the weapon down at the low ready.
“What is it?” Allison asked.
She took a step back, probably unaware that she had done so, Kealey thought. It was anxiety, her nerve gone, her mind unable to make sense of anything.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But whatever it is, I want to be ready.”
Grabbing hold of her hand again, he started toward the ramp.
The entrances faced each other beneath the walkway. The letters above the automatic sliding doors to the left read OTTERBEIN LOBBY. Those above the opposite doors said SHARP STREET LOBBY-EXECUTIVE OFFICES.
Kealey turned to his right. The extension on his left was where the blasts had occurred, where Colin and Julie might be trapped, if they hadn’t already escaped or been evaced. But he had to resist the temptation to head inside. The cars gunning out of the back ramp as if all hell was at their tails had convinced him there might be more trouble on the way-and that he might still have a chance to head it off.
Allison was pointing to the left. “Ryan, wait! We have to go-”
“That way, I know,” he said. “But we need to get there through the back door. I’m not sure this is finished.”
She did not protest any further but came along with a rag-doll limpness. Kealey knew the feeling. She had shut down, her mind and body overwhelmed.
Entering, he heard the earsplitting racket of the convention center’s internal fire alarms. He spotted a pair of uniformed guards inside the entrance, about six feet apart, their backs toward him. The rent-a-cops were no surprise: he’d assumed that there were security guards on premises, and that it would be standard operating procedure for them to remain at their posts until the police arrived to seal the exit. The real question for Kealey was how to get past them.
“Come on!” he said, walking forward cautiously, unclasping his hand from Allison’s to reach into his pocket for his card holder.
One of the guards noticed him, shouted to the other, and they both turned, their eyes on his weapon as they drew their own sidearms from hip holsters.
“ Halt! ” one of them shouted from behind his Glock 9-millimeter semiautomatic. “Don’t take another step!”
“CIA!” Kealey said, stopping and flashing his outdated credential. “We need to get through.”
“We were told no one gets in-”
“We have people at the Harper event,” Kealey said. “We need to get to them.”
The rent-a-cops stood with the pistols extended in two-handed shooter’s grips, their muzzles aimed straight at Kealey and Allison.
“Toss the ID over.”
Kealey kept his gun lowered. He was trying to decide what to do next when he saw Allison bend and slide her own ID across the floor. Without lowering his gun or taking his eyes off Kealey, the guard squatted and picked it up.
“Drop the kerchief and come over here,” he said, rising.
Kealey and Allison did as he asked. As they approached, he compared the photo to the woman standing before him. He seemed satisfied, and Kealey folded away his own ID. The guard didn’t ask to examine it.
“Go ahead,” the man told him.
“Thanks. You have any intel, Officer Goldstein?” Kealey asked, reading his name tag.
“Not much,” the beefy man replied. “Three explosions-ballroom, food court, and hotel lobby. Emergency personnel having a tough time getting through traffic.”
“Some son of a bitch did their homework,” Kealey remarked.
The two moved on, leaving the scarves hanging around their necks.
“Nice move,” Kealey said.
Allison didn’t answer.
“Do you know how to get where we’re going from here?” he asked.
“Upstairs. Then double back,” she said.
Kealey grasped her hand again, saw a sign that said FIRE EXIT, and led her through the door. They hurried up the stairs, pausing behind the closed fire door. Kealey looked through its wired glass panel before he pushed into a wide public corridor. A misty film hung in the air, thicker at the bottom than at the top.
“Better put your mask back on,” he said.
Glancing back and forth, he saw separate signs for the administrative offices and the walkway to the center’s newer wing, the latter pointing around a bend in the corridor to his right. They moved in that direction at a full-tilt run.
No sooner had they rounded the corner than they saw the dead man. He was sprawled on the floor, faceup, wearing the same uniform as the guards downstairs in the lobby.
Allison stopped short an instant before she would have barreled over the corpse’s legs, horror dawning over her features, her eyes jumping from his grotesquely mutilated face to the overturned electric scooter beside him. It was splashed all over with blood.
“My God,” she said, gasping.
Even as Kealey moved between her and the dead man, his eyes snapped to where a second guard lay several feet to the right, also dead, his shirtfront soaked with blood. He’d fallen with his head propped against the wall, one knee upraised, the other leg extended, his arms spread loosely to either side. A long dripping red skid mark ran down on the wall where he must have fallen back against it before sliding to the floor.
Kealey studied the body near the scooter. The head was tilted sideways to the left, a large puddle of blood under the cheek and blown-out skull; the eye on that side rolled lazily up in its socket so only its white was visible. The right eye socket was a swamp of red.
“Shot at close range,” he said, noticing that the dead guard’s hand was wrapped around the butt of his half-drawn sidearm. “Executed.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was beaten to the draw,” Kealey said. “It doesn’t look like they ordered him to surrender.”
“They were probably making sure the offices were evacuated.”
Kealey nodded. “And then someone came up the stairs, the same as we did.” He shook his head, looked up toward the juncture of the wall and the ceiling. A camera was mounted there, but the red light was dark. It hadn’t been shot out by the killers, because someone on their team was using it. Whoever it was, they were watching him now.
The long black box reminded him of a vulture on a tree branch, patiently waiting for him to die.
Allison was breathing rapidly. “Ryan, what kind of madness is this?”
“I don’t know,” Kealey told her. “Let’s go.”
Raising the barrel of his Sig, he grabbed her right hand with his left and continued toward the walkway.
The gunfire erupted as they reached its entrance-a staccato burst from the far end of the span, then another overlapping volley.