The punk snarled something in Spanish and thrust her aside, eyes on the gas. Foy pretended to waver, but as he stepped around her, she yanked the gun out of his belt, threw the safety, and shot him in the base of the spine.
The youth howled and hit the floor. Five heads turned, mouths gaping in shock. Judith was a marksman and she hit her marks — first one man, then another.
Before she dropped the third man, he drew his own weapon and squeezed off a shot. The bullet struck sparks off the steel door. Judith lurched sideways and fired again, hitting the shooter in the forehead.
Two men remained standing. One clutched a can of gasoline like a shield; the other was reaching for his weapon.
Firing too quickly for accuracy, even at point-blank range, Judith hit the wrong man. The bullet penetrated the jerrican, and it exploded in an orange ball of fire.
Immediately, the pair was engulfed in flames that quickly spread. Fire scorched Judith, too, setting her hair and jumpsuit ablaze. Bolting across the basement, she dived through the hole and into the tunnel.
Judith landed in a shallow pool of fetid sewer water, dousing her burning clothes and singed hair. Choking, eyes burning, Judith crawled to her feet and raced through the dripping tunnel in a desperate bid to outpace the roaring conflagration at her back.
As soon as Jack’s combat boots struck pavement, he moved away from the fast-rope so the man behind him had a clear space to land.
Jack felt a hand grip his armored shoulder, turned, weapon ready. Tony Almeida was there, blinking against the prop wash.
“We’ve got to get inside,” Tony shouted over the hovering chopper’s engine. “Agent Foy’s in the sh—”
“Fire! Fire!” someone bellowed in Jack’s headset.
He glanced at the warehouse, then the gang headquarters at the other end of the block.
Smoke poured out of the roof above 1313 Crampton Street. Flickering flames reflected off Raptor Two’s aluminum belly.
Judith burst out of the tunnel, into a cavernous basement.
The space was lit by banks of halogen lights. The garage door dominated one wall, the makeshift biological weapons lab the other. There were no vehicles present — Noor was already gone.
Others were there, however. Two men in white lab coats were burning papers in a steel barrel in the center of the room. Smoke wafted up to the high ceiling. A third man sat at a small table, where he tapped the keys of a laptop computer.
A man at the barrel cried out. Judith shot him in the face, and he pitched forward, into the flames. She fired at the other man and missed.
The third man snatched the laptop off the table and ran toward the barrel, ready to toss the device into the flames.
Judith shot him in the legs, and he hit the floor. The computer slid across the concrete, stopping at her feet.
The man she missed rushed her. Judith pulled the trigger. The Hi-Power clicked on an empty chamber.
The man slammed into her, and they both went down.
As they struggled, the garage door blew apart with a deafening report, and men streamed through the shattered entrance.
Despite her ringing ears, Foy heard a shot. The man on top of her jerked, then fell limp. Almost immediately, someone flipped the corpse aside.
Judith blinked up at Tony Almeida, who lifted her off the floor with one hand.
“The cavalry has arrived,” he said, grinning. “Not that you needed us.”
“Believe me, I needed you. Grab that computer and let’s get out of here! This whole place is ready to blow!” she yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Just then, a rolling ball of fire roared out of the tunnel.
“Out! Everybody out!” Bauer shouted, gesturing wildly.
Tony grabbed the computer. And Jack rushed up to Foy.
“Where’s Noor?” he cried as they ran.
“Gone. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”
Jack cursed. “And the truck?”
Judith blinked. “What truck?”
24. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6:00 A.M. AND 7:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Robert Ellis avoided the crowd at the front of the auditorium, got in line at an entrance marked “Press” in six languages. A pair of security guards checked off every name on the list as the reporters arrived.
“Ellis, Robert, Theological News Service, New York,”
he said, handing over his identification. The guard checked his name against the roster and returned his ID.
“Through the metal detector and straight ahead, Mr. Ellis,” the guard told him.
After he passed through the X-ray machine, a slight, effeminate man swathed in Armani stepped out of the shadows to greet him. His English was slightly fractured, but Ellis had to admit the man’s pronunciation was excellent.
“Mr. Ellis! How good of you to come, sir. Archbishop Holzer had many good things to say about you. When His Excellency called with this last-minute request for an invitation, I could not refuse him.”
Ellis smiled. “I appreciate your hospitality, Mr.—”
“Jorg Schactenberg,” he said, extending his hand. “I am Soren Ungar’s amanuensis.”
The man’s handshake had all the warmth and life of a dead fish.
“I understand you attended this event last year,”
Schactenberg purred.
“Two years ago,” Ellis corrected. “Last year I was away from Geneva on urgent business.”
“Ah, yes,” the other man replied. “Always with the business. His Excellency, the Archbishop, told me you have kept him up late many times, with talking about the philosophy and the religion — and your many amazing adventures. You have a seminary background?”
“A bachelor’s degree in theology, from Fordham University in New York,” Ellis replied. “And I might add that Archbishop Holzer possesses an amazing mind. I have often been a guest in his home, and it was always most stimulating.”
Everything Ellis told Schactenberg was true, though if today’s bit of wet work ever came to light, Ellis doubted he would ever be welcome in the Archbishop’s residence again.
“I’m sure Herr Ungar’s speech will be quite enlighten-ing,” Ellis added graciously.
Schactenberg offered Ellis a thin smile. “As an American, I’m sure you will hear something that interests you.”
The man led Ellis behind the massive stage, to a room packed with members of the international press.
“I have reserved a place for you in the reception line, Mr. Ellis. I do believe Herr Ungar will greet all the members of the media before he delivers his address.”
Ellis smiled. “I’m counting on it.”
