“Don’t get involved, Lia! Get out of there!” yelled Rockman, pounding on the console of his workstation as the scene on his monitor blurred. The images whirled. They were fed from a video cam hidden in a button on Lia’s jacket, and Rockman knew from experience that she had attacked one of the gunmen from the side, taking him with a karate-style kick.
“Run away!” Rockman repeated. The image blanked, and for a moment he thought he’d lost the feed. Then he realized that she had fallen to the ground, face-first.
“Lia!”
Telach leaned over the front of his station, staring at him but saying nothing.
“Did you see them?” asked Lia.
“Are you talking to me?” asked Rockman.
“No, the Invisible Man. Did you see them?”
Rockman put his finger on a button under the screen, isolating her voice from the background sounds erupting around her.
“I didn’t see them, but we can review the images later. Are you OK?”
“Where did the others go?”
“Are you OK?”
She replied with an expletive so fierce he knew she had to be fine. He looked up and nodded at Telach.
“Tell her to get out of there,” said Telach. “Now.”
“Lia, get out of there.”
Another expletive.
The street was chaos around her. Police ran left and right. Some people were lying on the ground; others were crouched on their haunches and pointing, apparently in the direction the gunmen had fled.
“Lia,” said Telach, keying her microphone into the circuit. “Remember your job. Leave the area.”
The op still didn’t respond. Once Lia DeFrancesca decided she was going to do something, not even a nuclear bomb could stop her.
Literally, as she had proven beneath the English Channel.
22
Lia lurched to the right, ducking a fleeing protestor as she tried following one of the men who’d fired the submachine gun in the crowd. She saw him stop at the doorway of the building and threw herself down as he began firing again. When she looked up, a woman roughly her age lay on the sidewalk nearby, blood spilling slowly from her mouth.
“Ambulance! Get an ambulance!” yelled Lia, deciding to help the woman rather than chase a gunman she could no longer see. The woman convulsed, bending at the midsection. There was a large blot of blood on her shirt. Lia leaned over the body and saw that the woman’s eyes were glossy. Then Lia realized the victim had stopped breathing.
Lia jumped up, determined to help someone else. But Fernandez grabbed her.
“We have to get out of here. The police are going crazy.”
“The police?” said Lia. “Why?”
“Come on.”
The police were clearing the area, but they weren’t going crazy. True, they were yelling and emphatically herding people away, but the reactions were normal.
“Let’s go,” insisted Fernandez.
“We have to help the people.”
“Let’s go before the police shoot us, too.”
“The police didn’t do this.”
Lia looked left and right quickly. Only when she was sure there were no other victims on the ground, she let Fernandez tug her away, passing through the area where the police line had been earlier. They turned the comer and went half a block, where they found a television crew already interviewing a hysterical man covered with blood.
“Stay here with the TV people,” Fernandez told her. “The car’s just up the block. I’ll get it and pick you up.”
“Go ahead,” said Lia.
She took a step toward the man who was being interviewed. The Spanish was a little quick, but Lia easily understood the gist — the man was accusing the police of firing on the crowd.
“No. It wasn’t the police,” Lia said. “Two men came out of the building. They weren’t police. At least they weren’t dressed like policemen.”
The man who was being interviewed spoke louder and more quickly. The reporter didn’t seem to hear her.
“No — that’s not what happened,” said Lia.
“We’ll get to you in a second, honey,” said the cameraman, waving at her to pipe down.
“Lia, get out of there,” said Rockman in her ear. “Get out of there, now.”
The witness who was being interviewed said that a number of policemen had fired. Some had singled out their victims very carefully before taking aim.
“That’s just not true,” said Lia.
Something exploded in the street behind the cameraman. She started to duck, but a hand caught hold of her and threw her back. As she spun, another set of hands grabbed her and threw her into the backseat of a car.
“Go!” yelled a familiar voice.
It was Charlie Dean.
“What are you doing?” Lia demanded from the floor of the car as it squealed into reverse.
“Saving you,” said Dean, next to her on the seat.
Overcome by rage, Lia pulled herself up and swung her fist hard into Dean’s chest.
“What are you doing, Charlie? What are you doing?”
He grabbed her arm. She pushed against his grip, then forced a release with a sharp snap of her forearm.
“You hit me again, I may hit back,” he warned.
“Hey, you lovebirds, let’s calm down back there,” said Karr. “It’s a little hard navigating as it is.”
“I’ll strangle you, Tommy,” Lia sputtered. “Just stop.
“The car?”
“I swear—”
“Let’s just calm down,” said Dean. “Let’s all just calm down.” He leaned forward to talk to Karr, who was wearing his usual
“I don’t need no stinkin’ drink,” said Lia.
“Well, I do,” said Dean. “I think you broke one of my ribs.”
23
Rubens hesitated for a moment before picking up the phone.
“Yes, Debra, what can I do for the CIA today?”
“It’s what the CIA can do for you, Bill.”
Rubens was thankful he did not have a videoconferencing phone; Debra Collins’ smirk would have turned his
