Baxter.
One side of his face was covered in rivulets of blood from a ragged cut in his scalp. He lay sprawled on the street for a moment, catching his breath, then stood.
The MP5 was in his hand.
The onlookers hurriedly backed away as Baxter staggered towards the wrecked Mustang. Adam reached into his jacket. His fingers found the disk, still in its case — but he remembered too late that he had given Harper’s gun to Bianca.
Baxter drew closer, cold anger on his face. He was going to finish the job.
Adam fumbled for the door handle. It moved, but only a little. Jammed. He pulled harder, but the damaged mechanism still refused to give. He looked up. Baxter continued to limp towards him.
The laser sight flicked on, the beam rising towards Adam. He heard someone shouting, but couldn’t make out the words. The edges of his vision began to roil, darkness growing. His body was desperate to shut down, to stop the pain.
He couldn’t allow it. Not yet. He tugged the handle again, shifting painfully to push at the door with one knee. It still wouldn’t open.
Trapped.
Baxter was only a few yards away, the laser dazzling. Somebody shouted again, more urgently, but the words were still distorted.
Baxter’s bloodied mouth twisted into a victorious smile—
A dark flower burst open on his chest. The former Marine staggered, the laser line swinging crazily — and a second entry wound erupted beneath the first. Baxter toppled backwards to the ground as blood gushed from the bullet holes.
Adam looked back. Two cops were running towards him, one keeping his smoking gun fixed on the fallen man. The other hurried to the Mustang, pointing his own weapon at its occupant. Words finally resolved through the ringing. ‘Hands where I can see them!’
Adam tried to respond, but a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him. He slumped, head lolling. The cop shouted again. ‘Get your hands up! Now!’ The gun’s muzzle moved closer, the black hole swelling as if to swallow him…
‘Don’t shoot!’
A new voice. The cop lowered his gun. Adam gathered all his strength to turn his head. Several men were running around the corner from 17th Street. Most were in dark suits — Secret Service agents, guns at the ready. Amongst them was a thinner man, his clothing far more expensively tailored.
Alan Sternberg.
‘Call an ambulance!’ shouted the National Security Adviser as the agents spread out to contain the scene. He peered through the Mustang’s window. ‘Jesus,’ he said at the sight of the battered man inside. ‘Agent Gray? Can you hear me?’
Adam squinted up at him with his one open eye. ‘Sir, I’ve… got the disk,’ he managed to say, reaching weakly into his jacket to produce it. ‘It’s got… the proof about Harper. Just before the… bombing in Islamabad…’
Sternberg gently took it from him. ‘If the proof’s on this, we’ll find it.’ He looked back at the Secret Service men. ‘Where’s that damn ambulance?’
Adam’s vision began to tunnel again. He peered past Sternberg towards the intersection. The street was crawling with cops, holding back traffic and pedestrians — but one car had come through. A Cadillac CTS. Harper’s.
The rear window wound down. A face looked out. Even in his state of fading consciousness, Adam still felt the odd, dislocated sensation of seeing himself, as his borrowed persona reacted to the sight of Harper staring back at him. ‘Sir,’ he gasped. ‘Open the door…’
Sternberg pulled at the handle. The catch finally released. ‘Someone help me with him!’ A pair of agents rushed over to give assistance.
Adam barely held in a pained cry as he was lifted out of the car. His injured left arm hung limply at his side, but he managed to bring his right up to point at the Cadillac. ‘Harper… over there…’
Sternberg looked round in surprise. He started to speak, only to freeze as he saw Harper emerge from the car with a gun in his hand.
The Secret Service agents saw it too, moving to shield Sternberg. But Harper had already brought his weapon up.
He fired—
Screams came from the onlookers as the white-haired man collapsed beside the limousine, the fire-blackened hole of a bullet wound at point-blank range in his temple.
Adam watched as Harper fell, a mixture of emotions hitting him. Shock at the sight of someone taking his own life; anger that the architect of so many deaths, including Michael Gray’s, had found a cowardly way to escape justice. But he also knew exactly why Harper had done it. His thoughts were clear. I’m a patriot, right to the end. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect America. There would be no humiliation of a public trial.
There was another feeling in Adam’s mind, this one all his own. Completion. His mission was accomplished.
He could rest. Perhaps for ever.
The last thing he saw as his perception faded to an all-consuming nothingness was Bianca climbing out of the Cadillac, her eyes locked fearfully on to his.
Chapter 50
Requiem
Kyle watched gloomily as the Bullpen’s video wall was switched off. ‘So. We’re suspended. Again.’
‘Cheer up, man,’ said Levon, clapping a hand on his shoulder. ‘At least it’s a paid suspension.’
‘Rather than the “thrown in a cell awaiting possible criminal charges” kind,’ Holly Jo added. She gave Morgan an embarrassed look. ‘Thank you for letting us off with just a reprimand, sir.’
‘Don’t think I didn’t consider taking matters further,’ Morgan replied sternly. The three young specialists wilted under his gaze — until he unexpectedly winked at them, a small smile breaking through his stony mask.
‘Well, I still think it’s an outrage,’ said Kiddrick, glaring at him. ‘I mean, I was assaulted in my own office! I suffered injury and emotional trauma, to say nothing of the—’
‘Oh, come now, Nate,’ boomed a stentorian voice from the back of the room. Everyone turned to see Albion enter, riding in an electric wheelchair. ‘Consider it an injury sustained in the line of duty. It’s a badge of honour! I got shot by a terrorist; you got a bump on the head. Practically the same thing.’
The others laughed — with one obvious exception. ‘I’m not going to let this lie,’ Kiddrick whined. ‘I deserve recompense. I should sue!’
Morgan’s unsympathetic eyes turned upon him. ‘I would seriously advise against anything that might expose STS’s operations in an open court, Dr Kiddrick.’
‘Well, I should — I still intend to take this higher,’ spluttered the scientist.
‘To whom?’ said Albion, rolling up alongside him. ‘The Deputy DNI? He’s got enough on his plate right now, trying to deal with all the fallout. And I don’t think trying to sully Adam’s name will win you much favour with Alan Sternberg.’
Kiddrick glowered at him, then looked around for support. He found none. Face twitching, he stalked away. ‘Don’t forget we have a meeting,’ Morgan called after him.
Kyle made a rude gesture behind Kiddrick’s back, stopping when he caught Morgan’s disapproving look. He hurriedly tried to camouflage his hand movement by brushing imaginary fluff from his chest. ‘So, Doc! Welcome back!’
‘How are you feeling?’ Holly Jo asked Albion.
‘As good as anyone who can see daylight through their torso can feel,’ he replied. ‘But I should be up on my own two feet in a few weeks.’
‘And until then, you’ve got that sweet ride,’ said Kyle, eyeing the wheelchair. Holly Jo tutted.
Albion grinned. ‘No, he’s right. It is rather cool.’ He nudged the joystick, the chair doing a full three-sixty spin in place. ‘And it grants me unlimited licence to quote Dr Strangelove.’ He turned again, more slowly, to survey the Bullpen. ‘So. Did I miss anything while I was away?’