Page 40 of Circle of Death
Margo rounds the corner and sees the veiled figure on a ladder, head and shoulders hunched over a seam between the wall and ceiling. The stock of a rifle is nestled against her armpit. Margo leaps up and grabs for the waist. They both fall backward. The shooter’s head cracks hard against the cement floor, and her body goes limp. Margo yanks the head covering off the unconscious figure, expecting to see a Middle Eastern woman.
Not a scrawny white man.
“Margo! Jericho!”
Burbank shouts into his mic, even though he knows they can’t hear him. The trackers are blocked. He’s getting no audio signal at all. All he can do is watch. And what he sees is confusing.
There are now two thermal images in the inner corridor on the third level. Only one is moving. In the duct high above the gallery, one thermal image is dead center over the podium. Another is moving quickly down the space between the inside and interior wall. But who’s who? Are the threats neutralized or active? Are Jericho and Margo alive or dead? No way to tell.
Frantic, Burbank switches to the camera view from behind the podium. The president is still speaking. In the front row, a slender teenage girl in a wheelchair puts a water bottle to her lips, her eyes locked on Diaz. When she lowers the bottle, the mouthpiece stays between her lips. Burbank zooms in. The girl stands up. She points the mouthpiece at Diaz!
Burbank jumps up from his chair and puts his hand on the screen, as if that would help.Where’s Lamont?The girl leans forward, puffing her cheeks. Suddenly, a steel plate appears in front of the president. Bodyguards swarm Diaz, shoving him down behind the podium. Two agents leap from the rostrum and tackle the girl, flattening her on the carpet as the other kids cower and scream.
As Burbank watches, the steel barrier dissolves. A needle-thin dart floats lightly in midair—as if it’s being held in an invisible hand.
The Shadow’s hand.
CHAPTER 49
I’M HUDDLED WITH the president of the Americas in a safe room in the subbasement of the UN building. The walls are designed to withstand a nuclear strike, and we could live for weeks down here on the supplies in the storeroom. But the president is ready to leave. Right now.
“Let’s move!” he says. “I feel like a goddamn gopher in a hole!”
The head of UN security is standing near the door, sweat seeping through his light gray suit. “Please. Give us a few minutes, sir. We’re still securing the building.”
Jericho glares at him. “A little late for that, isn’t it?”
The security boss has no comeback.
Margo is sitting in a chair next to the president with the top of her niqab peeled back over her head. I can see the fire in her eyes. She wanted to question the two assassins, try to work her way into their minds. But they’re already on their way to a maximum-security detention center. If they’re anything like the Chinasian commandos, I doubt there’s much left of their minds anyway.
“What about the bomber?” asks Diaz.
“So far, no trace,” says the security chief. “We’ve established a perimeter.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” says Jericho, rubbing his chafed shoulders. “You’re looking for somebody really thin.”
Across the room, the head of the president’s security detail puts down a phone and steps over to report. “It looks like the man and the girl are mercenaries, trained in Hangzhou. First-timers. Doubtful they know anybody beyond their handlers. If they even know that.”
“And the other kids?” asks Margo.
“All clean, as far as we can tell. The girl infiltrated the line after they left the holding room. The dart was a synthetic polymer. Hard to detect.”
“And the poison?” asks Jericho.
“Batrachotoxin. About a thousand times more potent than cyanide. Natural and untraceable.”
That would have been one painful stick. And a very quick death.
Suddenly, I hear Burbank in my earpiece.
He shouts one word. One syllable. I turn white.
“Open the door!” I shout at the guard. He stiffens and plants his feet. I turn to the president. He looks at my face and nods. The guard presses a release mechanism and swings the massive door open. I step into the underground corridor and wave my security pass at the sentry posted outside.
“Which way out?”
The guard points down the hall. “That way. Thirty yards.”
