“Clear the way!” I bellowed, and pulled my gun. People slammed themselves against the walls. Some fools turned and ran away from me, obscuring my view of Santoro. I pelted down the hallway. I collided with people. I punched one poor bastard just to get him out of my way. Santoro vanished around the far turn and I ran harder. Behind me I could hear Ghost barking, but the sound was fading. He wasn’t following me. How badly was he hurt?
No time to worry about that, either.
I skidded around the corner, going wide in case Santoro was lying in wait. He wasn’t, but there was a cabin steward on his knees with his hands clutching a throat that sprayed blood. I had a glimpse of a single wild despairing eye as I ran past.
I had to take two short side corridors. One was empty, and in the other a woman huddled on the ground, hands over her head. I saw no blood as I ran past.
There was a scream ahead. I put on another burst of speed, but as I neared the corner a teenage girl came flying around the bend, propelled by a savage kick from Santoro. I slammed into the girl; her forehead hit me on the mouth, bursting my lips against my teeth.
I twisted as I rolled, pushing the girl away from me, but Santoro darted in and kicked my gun out of my hand, then pivoted and dove for it. He came out of his roll with the gun in his hand just as I hopped to a crouch. I had no choice, so I grabbed the teenager by the collar and the belt and flung her at Santoro’s legs. It was a wicked and vile thing for me to do, but the alternative would have been much worse, even for the girl.
Santoro went flying forward and the gun passed me and bounced down a set of stairs. The girl curled into a fetal ball of pain and screamed.
I lunged for Santoro, but he rolled onto his back and kicked up with both feet. Suddenly I was flying backward into the wall. My head struck hard enough to shake loose the moorings of reality, and my sight flickered on and off. Last thing I saw was Santoro coming at me with the short knife in his hand.
Chapter Eighty-one
The
December 21, 8:06 P.M. EST
On the stage a pair of burly SAS men tackled the Prince just as heavy-caliber bullets ripped through the flowers. But the shots were aimed low and they missed the trio as the agents dragged the Prince to safety.
One of the burly bodyguards saw a shooter taking aim at Jay-Z and launched his 340 pounds from the edge of the stage in a diving tackle that crushed the shooter and snapped his spine. The Chosen next to him put his barrel against the bodyguard’s head but he never made the shot. A big red hole appeared in the center of his chest and his body was flung backward against the rail. Two other Chosen turned to see where the shot had come from. The sounds of the gunshots that killed them were lost beneath the din.
High above the melee, John Smith worked the bolt and fired. Again and again. Each shot hit the target. Problem was that he didn’t have nearly enough bullets.
“Shit,” he murmured to himself.
He worked the bolt and fired, worked the bolt and fired.
Then he jerked his head up as a fresh wave of gunfire erupted from above him. He rolled over and looked into the sky. John Smith smiled.
The sky was filled with TradeWinds Motor Kites. He did a quick count. Forty. No … fifty of them. From each harness a DMS agent hung suspended, one hand on the controls, the other clutching a handgun. They rained fire down on the Chosen.
“’Bout time,” said John Smith. He rolled back onto his stomach, worked the bolt, and fired.
Chapter Eighty-two
The
December 21, 8:07 P.M. EST
Santoro came at me with a flurry of vicious cuts, and I backpedaled as fast as I could. Even so, I could feel the tip of that little knife ripping away my shirt. Hot lines of agony crisscrossed my chest as he lunged deeper.
He was so goddamn fast.
My back hit the wall at the turning and Santoro smiled and threw himself at me, but his own expression of triumph gave it away. I hit and dropped into a crouch and punched him in the thigh. I wanted to hit him in the nuts, but he brought his leg up. Even so, the blow knocked him back and I dove low and long and caught him around the knees and bore him down. His back hit hard and flat and it drove a
I curled my knees under me to propel my body forward for a downward body slam. I wanted to knock the rest of the air out of him, make him choke, and slowly beat the shit out of him.
But as I lunged, he slammed his elbow down on the crown of my head, then slammed his fist between my shoulder blades. It was the fist that held the knife, and the blade tore through my vest and skin and muscle like a dagger of pure fire.
I screamed.
Santoro released the knife and punched me across the face, once, twice, three times, and then pivoted to kick my deadweight off his legs.
I flopped over. Lines of fire radiated out from the puncture. I knew the blade was short, but it was jammed in next to my spine. My whole body twitched.
Then Santoro was on his knees, his fingers tearing at my pockets.
“Where is it?” he snarled, first in English and then, as he became more desperate, growling it in Spanish. In my daze I couldn’t quite understand what he was doing. He had me; I was completely vulnerable. All he had to do was pull out the knife and cut my throat.
Then he dug his scrabbling fingers into my left front pant pocket and I knew what he was after. The syringe.
He closed his hands around it.
And then Ghost hit him like a white thunderbolt.
Chapter Eighty-three
The
December 21, 8:08 P.M. EST
