“It’s wide-open territory out there,” said Zak. “Anyone could be CIA.”
“Yeah,” Richard replied, checking the Sig Sauer and flipping on the safety. He stuck the gun in the inner pocket of the ill-fitting jacket he was wearing, obscuring it from view.
“Okay,” Zak said, sticking to Kumar’s side. “We’re going to head up there. Kumar,” he said, pointing to the gaping hole in the wall separating Courtroom 401 from the foyer, “stay tight between Richard and me. Do exactly what we tell you to do. We’ve been through worse than this.” They gingerly edged up the stairs, eyes continually surveying the huge glass foyer and the street and crowd beyond it. The courthouse consisted of seven floors, each set a little farther back than the one below it, with a gigantic angled glass roof rising above the terracing structure. Fire trucks and police vehicles were arriving. The crowd was increasing and gawkers stopped to see what might unfold.
“Perhaps I could borrow these from you,” Richard said to one of the sheriffs crouching in the rear of the courtroom. He motioned to the man’s headset and mouthpiece. He gave the set to Zak, who put it on, now connecting both of them to the courthouse security system. “Both of us are with an American security agency, and we have to protect this guy.” He motioned in Kumar’s direction.
“No problem, sir,” said the sheriff, unhooking the transmitter/receiver from his utility belt. “You guys seem to know what you’re doing.” “It’s an illusion,” said Zak.
Zak hooked himself up and the three of them cautiously poked their heads out of the gap in the outer wall created by Tyra’s grenades. He spotted a slight East Indian man standing, stunned, in the foyer, a man about Kumar’s height and build. “Oh shit,” he said to Richard. “That guy looks way too much like Kumar.”
Richard yelled to the stranger, “Sir, you sir, come in here! You’re a target!”
The man had a confused expression on his face and raised the palms of his hands outwards. “You’re a target!” Richard yelled. He was too late. Suddenly the man was knocked violently to one side and went down, his head a bloody mess.
“Everyone get down! There’s a sniper!” There was some screaming and running, but most of the people threw themselves down on the floor. Richard noted the direction in which the man’s body was launched, and looked toward the east. “Zak, you’ve got way sharper eyes than I do. Do you see anyone on the roof of that grey building?”
Zak stuck his head outside of the courtroom and looked in the direction Richard was pointing. He squinted and then nodded. “Yeah, there’s someone up there. I can see a rifle barrel.”
Richard turned to the crowd. “What’s that grey building over there to the east?” he yelled.
A man in the crowd responded, “That’s the Four Seasons Hotel.”
Richard turned on his microphone. “This is Richard Lawrence. I am guarding the witness, Kumar Hanaman. There is a sniper on top of the Four Seasons Hotel. Tell the cops. Tell them to put a bird in the air.”
Richard kept the headphone on so he could listen to the chatter of the sheriffs. He could tell that one of them was reporting to the police. At least the awareness was slowly setting in that this was an attack not on the courthouse or some judge, but on the defense’s star witness. They edged farther down the broad, carpeted steps, finally reaching the foyer.
“Fangs out, Zak. Stay out of the line of fire from the guy on top of the Four Seasons. There could be others.”
“Yo, bro, thanks. Wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“Shut up. Eyes open.”
They reached the western exit of the courthouse, but did not step out. “Down there, Rich, isn’t that, I know that guy—blue raincoat, short hair.”
“I know him, too. That’s Johnny, Johnny . . .”
“Johnny Slater,” Zak said. “He worked in Europe for a long time, and I think he went to the Ottawa embassy a few years ago.”
Richard turned the microphone back on. “This is Lawrence. Can any of you guys hear me?”
The earpiece crackled. “Go ahead, Mr. Lawrence.”
“There is a gentleman at the edge of the crowd, west building exit. He’s mid-forties, wearing a blue raincoat, short hair, stocky, glasses. That guy is probably armed. He will probably be carrying a Beretta 92FS with hollow points. His name is Johnny Slater. He is a CIA agent. He is highly trained and should be considered dangerous. Tell the cops. Use extreme care.”
“Let’s stay right here, behind these planters. If the police jump Johnny, we’ll know that we’re being treated seriously.”
Several sheriffs came up to them. “The three of you. Don’t be difficult. The protocol requires you to be outside the building while it’s being checked over.”
“Haven’t you been listening on the comm-link?” Zak was irritated. “Your protocol is going to get us killed. There’s a sniper on top of the Four Seasons and that guy in the blue coat down below is armed, highly trained, and looking to see Kumar here dead.”
“Not anymore,” said the sheriff. “Your blue raincoat guy is now surrounded by four Vancouver police officers. He’s under arrest. They’re cuffing him now. Holy cow, he does have a handgun.”
“Yes, dummy, he’s got a handgun,” retorted Zak. “And he’s cuffed. Good show. There are bound to be five or six others. I know how these things are arranged. In a hit like this, it’s never just two or three guys. It’s a gang, got that? A kill team. There will be more. I used to work for this outfit.”
“That’s still pretty out there, Mr. Lawrence. Now we have our protocol . . .” As he was
