The Face of Death

No questions, Tommy's way, he just follows my line of sight and his hand moves toward the inside of his jacket.

What's that?

The hard-faced man throws his hands out before him, and they open, and two things tumble through the air. They are arcing, two perfect lobs--

'Fuck!' Tommy screams.

Tommy is pushing me back, shoving me away, and I'm falling backward, and I realize what's happening in a flash like a rifle-crack.

'Grenades!' I scream, too late.

The explosion inside the lobby area is huge and deafening. I feel a shock wave and heat and something grazes my face and then the air is sucked away, just for a moment, and I'm falling, feeling my head crack against the marble floor and everything goes very, very gray . . .

The puffy clouds in my head are replaced by the smell of smoke and the sound of gunfire.

Automatic weapon, I think, fuzzy.

I come back to myself in a flash, instantly alert. I'm lying on my back. I struggle to a sitting position, and then scrabble to the left, frantic, as something whines off the marble next to me. God, my head hurts.

My ears are ringing. I look around, see Callie behind a marble pillar, her face smudged and grim as she fires her weapon. I see James struggling to get up, blood running down his face. Alan starts yelling at him.

'Stay down, you moron!'

The automatic keeps firing, not letting up, spraying the lobby with bullets.

The hard-faced man means business, yes indeed, I think, and almost giggle, except that I don't because that'd just be crazy. Gotta clear my head . . .

I hear the return roar of handguns and pull my own, wobblybobbly, operating on instinct. My gun slips into my palm and whispers to me in tones of hushed joy, ready.

I'm in the hallway where Tommy pushed me, and then I remember and then (Oh God Oh Shit Oh Fuck) terror thrills through me and I search for him, look for the bloody body that I'm sure, that I'm afraid, that I don't want--

'Over here,' Tommy whispers.

I whip around. Somehow, someway (Thank God Thank God Thank God) he's behind me. He's sitting with his back to the wall. His face is gray. He's bleeding from the shoulder.

'You're hit,' I cry.

'No kidding,' he mutters, trying to smile. 'Hurts too. But I'm good. Shrapnel in the shoulder, no vital organs hit. Bleeding's under control.'

I stare at him, trying to take this in.

'I'm okay, Smoky. Go kill that idiot, will you?'

Yes, let's, my gun whispers, and this time I snarl back, filled with a clarity of purpose.

I just need to see him. If I can see him, I won't miss. I move forward, staying down, my weapon at the ready. The gunfire from the auto continues, an insanity of lead and steel. I can smell the metal, and it cracks and whines and ricochets off every surface.

'Callie!' I yell.

She looks over at me and I point at my eyes.

How many?

She holds up a single finger.

One.

I nod and indicate that I want her and Alan to provide covering fire. She nods back and I watch as she conveys the plan to Alan. James has managed to move behind the pillar where Callie is. Blood flows from a cut on his forehead. He looks dazed and out of it. Callie gives me a thumbs-up.

I glance back at Tommy once. I grip my gun and crouch, waiting for the lull that has to come.

Everybody has to reload sometime.

The automatic weapon fire seems to go on forever. I know that this is an illusion; time elongates in battle, or becomes meaningless altogether. Sweat pours down my forehead. My head is throbbing, and the cordite in the air is starting to give me a metallic taste in my mouth. The silence is shocking when it comes. Its absence, after all that roaring, is almost a sound of its own.

I see Callie whip around the pillar, gun ready, and I'm rising as well, looking across the lobby now, searching for the hard-faced man--

I stop. My gun screeches in rage.

The front of the lobby is empty.

50

I RUN TOWARD THE ENTRANCE, FLY THROUGH THE METAL DETECtors, they squeal in protest. I register the unmoving body of a security guard. I can't tell if he's alive or dead.

I hit the doors with my shoulder and burst out onto the steps, breathing too hard, my gun in a two-handed grip.

Nothing!

I race down the steps and out into the parking lot. I whip my head left and right, trying to spot him. I hear the doors open and Callie arrives next to me, followed not long after by Alan.

'Where is he?' Callie snarls. 'He just left!'

We hear the growl of a powerful car engine and the squeal of tires and I run toward the sound. I see a black Mustang racing away, lift my gun to fire . . . and then I realize: I can't be sure it's actually him.

'Fuck!' I scream.

'You got that right,' Alan mutters.

I bolt back up the steps, taking them three at a time, through the doors again. Callie and Alan are on my heels.

The lobby is a picture of carnage. I see three bodies down and being attended to by other agents. At least four others have their guns out, while Mitch, the head of security, is talking on his walkie, his face grim. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with a trembling hand, and try to still my internal stress-and-battle voice. I'm still thinking in flashes. I need to move fast, but slow down inside.

'Check on James,' I tell Callie.

I go over to Tommy. He looks a little better. His face isn't as white, though he's obviously in a lot of pain. I crouch down next to him, grip his hand with one of mine.

'You saved my life,' I say, my voice shaky. 'Stupid, heroic dingleberry.'

'I--' He winces. 'I bet you say that to all the guys who push you away from flying grenades.'

I look for my own witty comeback and find that I can't speak for a moment. I don't love Tommy, not yet, but he matters more than any other man in my life since Matt. We're together.

'Jesus, Tommy,' I whisper. 'I thought you were d-d-dead.' My tongue feels Novocain-numb and my stomach is fluttery and queasy. He stops trying to smile. He pins me with his eyes. 'Well, I'm not. Okay?'

I don't trust my voice right now. I manage a nod.

'James is fine,' Callie calls over, startling me, 'but he'll need some stitches.'

I look at Tommy. He smiles.

'I'm fine. Go.'

I squeeze his hand a last time and stand on legs that I'm grateful to find steady. The elevator doors open up and AD Jones strides out, his weapon at the ready, a phalanx of armed agents at his back.

'What the fuck happened?' he barks, a near-yell.

'An intruder came in and tossed two grenades into the lobby,' I say. 'Then he opened up with an automatic weapon. He escaped out the front.'

'Casualties?' he asks.