The bus halted in a cloud of dust, in front of a large building made of unpainted cinder blocks. The aluminum screen door opened, and a woman in a black burka exited the building. Though her features were obscured, she carried a bundle of flowers in her tattooed hands.
“That’s nice,” Mrs. Cranston said.
Emily cut the engine, and Reverend Ahern opened the sliding door. Before he could step out, a howling mob of people burst from the Community Center and charged the bus. Another mob rushed out of the communal baths next door. They were women, mostly, along with a smattering of young boys and girls and old men. The males had guns.
The women carried knives, clubs, axes.
The mob swarmed the bus, threatening to tip the vehicle over on its side. Reverend Ahern was assaulted and pummeled into unconsciousness. Emily Reed tried to restart the engine and drive away, but an old man fired an ancient pistol at her through the windshield. The bullet struck her right eye, killing the woman instantly.
Brice Holman kicked the first person to reach for him.
The woman howled and fell to the floor. Clawing and screaming like animals, the rest of the pack crushed her in an effort to get at the passengers.
Holman heard Dani scream. Mr. Simonson lunged at the women attacking the teenager, knocked them aside.
Then someone stuck the man in the throat with a machete.
He went down spewing blood.
Holman lashed out again, his fist striking flesh. Then someone struck him on the back of the head and his world went dark…
Tony Almeida ducked behind a pillar and observed the white-smocked kid he fingered for the murder of the guard. The Hispanic youth was standing near the ER, talking into a cell phone. No doubt he was reporting his situation, which was dire.
Fifteen minutes ago, Tony discovered that hospital security and the Newark Police had sealed the hospital exits, effectively trapping the murderer inside the facility.
Almeida had located the punk at around the same time, but decided not to move against him in the crowded lobby.
Tony watched while the killer drifted over to an emergency fire exit, preparing to push through. He got a surprise when the door suddenly opened from the outside, and two uniformed cops entered — and walked right past him.
The close call obviously spooked the youth. Still on the phone, he slipped into a nearby stairwell. Tony followed, pausing at the steel door long enough to turn off his own cell — the last thing he needed was the phone to ring.
As soon as he entered the stairwell, Tony heard the man’s muffled voice, his footsteps on the stairs. Cautiously, Tony climbed, Glock in hand. It took five flights before he finally caught up with the kid. The youth had just ended his call and was heading back the way he came.
Tony leveled his gun on the punk, who stumbled backward, tripping on the steps. The kid fell onto the fifth- floor landing.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” Tony said evenly.
On his back, the kid threw up his arms. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and he seemed very frightened. Tony had to remind himself that this fresh-faced kid was old enough to murder a security guard in cold blood, then steal evidence of a possible terrorist plot.
Tony slowly approached him. “Show me your weapon and get up,” he commanded.
Eyes twitching, the kid shook his head. “I already dumped the gun. In a garbage can,” he said, getting to his feet. The youth had high cheekbones; narrow, catlike eyes; and so many twitches, Tony thought he might be overdosing on cocaine.
“Colombian?” Tony asked, one hand covering him while the other rifled through the pockets of his white smock.
Head shaky, the youth nodded. Tony located Foy’s digital camera and cell phone and pocketed both.
“Okay,” Tony said. “Now we’re going downstairs.”
Tony gestured with his Glock. As soon as the barrel wavered, the Colombian bolted. As the teenager raced up the final flight of stairs, Tony drew a bead at his broad back—
but didn’t pull the trigger.
Deep inside, Tony knew the truth. He didn’t want to cap someone so young.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Tony reached an emergency exit and burst through the door, expecting to come out on the roof. Instead, he emerged on a narrow, dead-end catwalk six stories above the parking lot.
When the Colombian heard the door open, he whirled to face Tony. The youth was panting, his face shiny with sweat — almost as if he was coming off some kind of drug high. Tony aimed the Glock at the punk’s heart.
“Come on, kid, give it up,” he called. “This time I will shoot.”
The youth wavered. Then he yanked the smock off his shoulders and leaped onto the rail. As the white coat flut-tered to the concrete below, the youth threw up his arms.
“No! Wait!” Tony cried.
Stumbling forward, Tony spied a tattoo of the number 13 on the Colombian’s forearm. He dropped the Glock and reached out to snatch the youth — too late.
Without uttering a sound, the Colombian dived headfirst off the catwalk. A moment later, his body slammed into a Cadillac parked in the physicians-only lot. The impact crumpled the roof and triggered the alarm.
Tony pulled the cell phone out of his pocket to call Agent Delgado, but as soon as he activated it, he discovered an urgent message from Morris O’Brian back at CTU
Headquarters in New York.
Frowning, he played it back.
“I understand,” Rachel Delgado said into her cell. “I’ll take care of everything here. You don’t have to worry about it.”
Rachel had been lingering outside Deputy Director’s Foy’s hospital room for almost an hour. Scrupulously following Tony Almeida’s last command, she hadn’t let anyone in or out of room 424.
Now she’d received new instructions. Agent Delgado closed the phone and tucked it into her purse beside the 9mm handgun. She scanned the area.
The doctors had made their rounds; the nurses had administered the afternoon meds. Most of the staff was gathered around the nurses’ station, waiting for the shift change at three-fifteen. With luck, Rachel Delgado would be finished by then. Finished and long gone.
Rachel peeked through the tiny window in the door of the private room. Judith Foy was asleep, her bandaged head lolling on the pillow. Quietly, she slipped through the door and approached the bed.
Rachel dropped her purse in the chair and leaned close, to examine the woman. Foy was definitely asleep. Her breathing was even, and she was snoring a little.
Circling the bed, Rachel looked around for the right tool for the job. She grinned when she fingered the IV tube running from the clear plastic bag into Judith Foy’s arm.
Rachel gently disconnected the plastic tube at the flow meter joint. Then she pulled the long tube free from the IV bottle. While the solution trickled onto the faux-hardwood floor, Rachel wrapped the plastic around both hands, to create a garrote.
Rachel paused for a moment while an orderly drifted past the door, heading for the nurses’ station. When the man was out of sight, Delgado loomed over Judith Foy.
In one quick motion, Rachel slipped the strangling cord around the sleeping woman’s throat and pulled it
