that by turning around, he would only confirm whatever suspicions had been raised behind them. Still, he had no choice. He stopped walking and looked over his shoulder. In the same instant, he turned his body, set his feet, and let his right hand hang casually down by his side. The unsettling scenario became immediately apparent: the accusing faces of the construction workers, the fearful expressions of the civilians standing nearby, the scared but determined face of the young CNP officer in the foreground. He looked past the officer, aware of the gun coming up, the shouted command, but all he could see was Naomi’s face. She was about 15 meters behind the policeman, and her Glock 9mm was already out and up. People were screaming and diving out of the way, but their shouts merged seamlessly with the cacophony of police sirens and the cries of the wounded.
Kealey knew he wouldn’t be able to get his weapon out in time; he had waited too long. He locked eyes with Naomi, still ignoring the officer’s shouts, and tried to communicate his thoughts to her. He couldn’t be sure if she understood, or if she even knew he was trying to tell her something, but he didn’t have time to think about it. She was already moving.
The moment she fired, the officer jerked, almost as if he’d been slapped on the back, then crumpled to the ground, his final expression marked by complete confusion. As he fell, his weapon discharged once, a reflex jerk on the trigger. Kealey heard the snap of the round as it passed a few feet overhead. Naomi was still moving forward, running faster now, her feet pounding over the debrislittered pavement. Her face was fixed in an unnerving expression, something between abject horror and utter resolve. . . . Kealey couldn’t help but stare as she approached, wondering what could possibly be going through her mind, but Petain’s voice jolted him back to reality. “We’ve got to move!” she urged, pulling frantically on his arm. Snapping out of it, Kealey stepped off the narrow sidewalk and into the street. Southbound traffic was tied up, hopelessly snarled, but the road was still relatively clear to the north. Inexplicably, one motorist had stepped out of his car to get a better look at what was happening. He was immobile, apparently unaware of the threat to his own safety. His entire body was rigid as he stared on in obvious shock. A few feet to his right, a small Ford Escort was still idling, exhaust rising up to join the pall of acrid smoke that still hung in the air. The driver’s-side door was ajar. Kealey considered training his gun on the man and shouting some kind of threat, but it wasn’t necessary. He simply pushed him aside and climbed behind the wheel. The man didn’t even protest, just fell to the ground and looked on in stunned disbelief. Petain jumped into the passenger seat, and Naomi arrived on the run a few seconds later. Behind them, several shots rang out, pounding into the trunk of the car. One round penetrated the rear windshield, narrowly missing Naomi’s head as she threw herself into the backseat. Keeping her body below window level, she reached back to close the door and screamed at Kealey to move, but he was already slamming the car into gear. The Escort jolted forward, then accelerated rapidly as he expertly shifted into second, his left foot working the clutch. The car scraped against another vehicle on the narrow road, swerving slightly, and the driver’s-side mirror came off with a loud bang, arcing into the air before shattering on the pavement 20 feet behind them.
They were coming up on the intersection. The light was red, and a number of vehicles were waiting for it to turn. An erratic stream of cars was flowing east on Calle de San Bernardino, blocking their only escape route, but Kealey knew he didn’t have a choice. Two CNP officers had already retrieved their vehicles and were coming up fast behind him.
“Get down!” he shouted as he turned the wheel hard to the right, bouncing the car up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians dove out of the way as the Escort raced toward the intersection. The sidewalk wasn’t especially crowded, but a few people weren’t able to get out of the way in time, their bodies bouncing off the front of the vehicle. When they were almost through the light, Kealey flinched involuntarily and turned his face away from the driver’s-side door. The inevitable impact came an instant later as an eastbound sedan caught the rear end of the Escort, spinning it around in the intersection, the glass exploding in the rear windows. Kealey heard the ear- wrenching crump of metal on metal as one car after another smashed into the back of the car that had plowed into them. Everything seemed to spin crazily for a few seconds, the surrounding buildings hurtling past his eyes, and then the car came to rest facing oncoming traffic, rocking slightly on its worn suspension. The engine had died, and Kealey instantly downshifted to first and turned the key, praying it would start up again.
Amazingly, it did. The engine caught for an instant, but then came to life. Kealey pushed the accelerator down and swerved back into the right lane, the damaged car surging forward, racing southeast toward the city center. The pileup behind them had blocked the police cars in pursuit, but it was only a temporary delay. More units were clearly on the way, as evidenced by the wailing sirens in the near distance.
Without taking his eyes off the road, Kealey asked, “Is everyone okay? Anyone hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Petain said, sounding strangely breathless. Looking over, Kealey saw that she was gingerly pulling the seat belt away from her chest; clearly, the collision had caught her completely off guard, and the belt had snapped taut across her body, forcing the air from her lungs.
“What about you, Naomi?”
“I’m okay,” she said in a strange monotone. Kealey shot a look over his shoulder, alarmed by the tone of her voice, but she appeared unhurt, staring fixedly past him and through the windshield. He was relieved to find they had both been wearing seat belts. He had forgotten his, but somehow he’d managed to come through unscathed.
“Take the next left,” Petain urged as Kealey swung back around in his seat. “Calle de los Reyes.”
“Is there a parking garage on that street? Somewhere with a little privacy?” Kealey asked.
“No, but a garage would have cameras, anyway,” she reminded him. “We’ve got to dump this vehicle right now. The CNP will have the area sealed off in a matter of minutes.”
Kealey nodded sharply; he was annoyed by the fact that he hadn’t considered the cameras. Following her directions, he turned onto the narrow side street and found a parking spot alongside the curb. They all climbed out, ignoring the strange looks the battered vehicle was drawing. A number of sirens seemed to be converging on a point in the near distance, but Kealey decided they were mostly responding to the scene of the bombing on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios. None were close enough to indicate an imminent threat. He turned to Petain. “You still have your phone?”
She ran a hand over her right pocket and nodded in the affirmative. Thinking back to the maps he had studied that morning, Kealey checked his watch and said, “We’ll meet at the botanical gardens off the Prado Road. Let’s make it two hours from now. I’ll call you in advance to give you a specific time and place.” He didn’t need to expound on this; the night before, they had each memorized the codes they would use in the event they were caught and forced to speak under duress. He felt sure they had slipped through the net, at least for the time being, but the precautionary steps were like rote to him, drilled in after years of operating illegally on foreign soil. There was no way he could discard them completely, not even under this kind of pressure. “Got it?”
Petain nodded again. “Got it.”
“What about me?” Naomi asked.
Kealey shot her an appraising look and frowned, deeply troubled by what he saw. She was still sweating profusely, and while her face was blank, her limbs were trembling violently. Her appearance alone was more than enough to attract attention, and that wouldn’t work at all. The first thing they had to find was a public restroom, a place where she could clean herself up. Then they would have to set about finding a change of clothes.
“You’re coming with me,” he told her. He turned back to Petain, but she was already moving away, slipping through the static crowd of pedestrians, many of whom had stopped to stare at the gray black cloud drifting past the towering skyline. Grasping Naomi’s hand firmly in his, Kealey turned and started off in the opposite direction, wondering how Harper would react when he heard the news. They had acquired the name they needed from Ghafour, but somehow, Kealey didn’t think that would be enough to justify the disaster that had just transpired. In fact, the situation could hardly be worse. At least one innocent man was dead, and now—despite the overall success of the operation—they were going to have to face the music. The only question was how bad it would end up being.
CHAPTER 20
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Jonathan Harper sat uneasily in the Oval Office, an untouched cup of coffee resting on the end table near his elbow. He’d been waiting for ten long minutes and wasn’t expecting the president anytime soon. Director Andrews
