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  They did, they understood, and Bell pulled the door open, Amy pausing to make certain everyone else was out first. He recovered his pistol, stripped the radios and the other submachine gun from the bodies, led the way as fast as he was willing to back to the ramp, down into the Gordo Tunnel, out of the heat. Checking over his shoulder, and they were all with him, Amy taking the rear. He brought them north, skipped the turn onto Flashman, then up to the Nova Tunnel, heading west, until he found the service entrance to the Speakeasy. Through the unlocked door and into the empty bar, and he ushered everyone inside, closed it.

  “Wait here. Quiet.”

  “Who the hell are you?” This from the husband, a short Latino man who reminds Bell fleetingly of Bonebreaker in posture and manner.

  “He’s my husband,” Amy said flatly. In crisis, it seems, their divorce is forgotten.

  “What’s your name?” Bell asked him.

  “Michael.”

  “Michael, I am the man getting you and your family out of here,” Bell said. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

  He took the short flight of stairs up to the door, threw the silly little spy-hatch slat, looked out, saw nothing and no one. Awakened the earbud and called for Chain or Angel, and it was Angel who came back immediately.

  “We have the command post,” she said. “Whatever you did, they never saw us coming.”

  “Do you have the cameras?” Bell asked. “Have you located the other groups?”

  “We’ve located another thirteen. There may be more, we don’t have all the monitors. Some were damaged in the take.”

  “The group of deaf kids this morning, my daughter’s group. Do you see them?”

  She paused. “Negative.”

  “I’m en route, have six with me. Find those kids, Angel. I need you to find those kids. Out.”

  So there are nine of them in the command post now. Angel wrestling with the coms scrambler that was hooked into the park’s network, and Chain trying to master the Spartan. Bell hands over the weapons and the radios, then puts Michael and his family in the conference room. He gives them bottled water and tells them that they need to sit tight here, they’ll evacuate them as soon as they can.

  “We’re safe here?”

  “This is the safest place in the park,” Bell says. “You’ve got two shooters in the command post and more on the way and no one and nothing is going to happen to you or your family.”

  Michael nods, takes hold of his wife’s hand. She smiles at Bell, a wan, weak smile, but it’s there nonetheless, and Bell leaves the room knowing they believe him.

  Amy follows.

  “They’re at the haunted house,” Amy tells him. “Hendar’s Lair, that’s where they took us. That’s where Athena is.”

  Bell yanks the first-aid kit from the wall, heading for the bathroom. “I have orders to wait.”

  “It’s your fucking daughter!”

  She follows him inside, glares at him in the mirror as Bell opens the kit on the counter, starts the faucet. He’s got bruises rising already on his face, below his left eye, and whatever happened to the small of his back is stinging, the wound still seeping. He unbuttons his shirt, splashes water on his hands and face.

  “They have our daughter.”

  This, Amy says much more softly, almost inaudible over the water. Bell is ripping open the packaging for a two-by-two-inch square of gauze, stops, feels every ache all together, feels tired.

  “I know.”

  “You have to get her. You have to get her and the others, Jad. The whole class is there, all of them. This is what you do. Isn’t it?”

  “There are fourteen other hostages in the park and there may be a bomb. Jorge and Freddie are on the way, Amy. Soon as they’re here, we’ll move, I swear to God. I swear to God we will get Athena back.”

  “They shot Marty.” Amy turns, hands resting on the counter, leans forward. She closes her eyes. “They murdered him right in front of us, right in front of the kids. They murdered their teacher right in front of them.”

  Bell is bandaging his lacerated palm, flexes his hand experimentally. The cut is not so deep that it reaches tendon, and he is, at least, grateful for that. He begins wrapping his hand in cling gauze.

  “What do they want? Who are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Bell tells her. “Help me with this.” He indicates the scissors in the kit with his head.

  She straightens, sighs, cuts the cling from its roll, splits the end at the center, tearing down to create two lengths. She wraps them around his hand in opposite directions, ties them together, snug. Bell wiggles his fingers, checks his circulation, but of course it’s fine.

  “Still pretty good at that,” he tells her.

  “Turn around.”

  Bell turns, facing the mirror, watches as Amy lifts his shirt free, makes a face at what she sees. “Looks like you got clawed.”

  “The jaguar.”

  “New scar.”

  “How deep?”

  “Lean forward.”

  Bell complies, and Amy runs more water, washes her hands, then digs into the kit. Begins opening new squares of gauze, then takes the bottle of Betadine, squirting it over the wound. Bell feels cool liquid spilling over his skin, down the back of his pants. Then her hands, cleaning the injury with the gauze, tossing it away to cover it with fresh strips.

  “Tape.”

  Bell takes the spool of cloth tape from the kit, hands it back. Watches his ex-wife’s reflection as she tends the wound, the tip of her tongue extended just past her lips in concentration, brushing hair from her cheek with the back of one hand. She uses her teeth to tear strips from the roll. He wishes he still didn’t find her beautiful.

  She finishes and Bell rights himself, feels the tape pulling as he straightens. Tucks his shirt back in, turning to face her. Her expression is the same as he remembers, countless training wounds and little injuries tended, the same look when she discovered a new wound, the dark eyes and somber, gentle sorrow.

  Amy leans forward, puts her lips to his, soft and dry, the kiss almost apologetic at first. Then harder, and Bell kisses her back, wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her close, and her palms are against his chest; the kiss breaks, and she buries her face against his shoulder. Like that, he holds her, feels her regaining her strength, feels her body tensing.

  Then she is pulling away, shoving free, one open palm beating against his breast, then the other, before she lets her hands fall, unable to look at him. Grimacing in frustration, in pain, in fury. Bell understands. Anger at him, at herself, at the world.

  “I asked you…” She shakes her head, swallows, refusing to give up tears. “I asked you, on the phone, if this was what you were afraid of. Did you know, Jad? Did you know this would happen?”

  He wants to be angry that she would even ask, almost tries to find it within him to be angry. But he’s too tired, and he hurts too much, inside and out, and the kiss, brief as it was, is an ashen memory. That she would think that of him, that he would do this to them, that she could believe him so callous and cold. He understands that there is nothing left between them, the emotional truth of intellectual knowledge six months old finally striking home. She does not love him anymore, because she does not know him.

  She does not know him, and she thinks him a monster.

  He says nothing. He can’t answer. But the silence damns him.

  “You bastard,” Amy says. “If anything happens to her, Jad Bell, if anything happens to our daughter…”

  She can’t finish, but she doesn’t need to. She turns away, shoves the door open, leaves him alone in the bathroom, with his injuries and his guilt.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THE CALL with the Uzbek goes like this:

  “Status?”

  “Status?” Gabriel echoes. “Status is fuck-awful, that’s the status. I’m down another four and lost the second group of hostages. The whole damn thing is falling apart.”

  “Calm down. Explain.”

/>   “We’re fucked. We were waiting to ambush them when they came out of the tunnels, but they got around us somehow. They must’ve split up or, fuck, maybe there are more of them, but they hit the command post and one of the groups. I’m down another four.”

  The Uzbek makes a clicking noise into the phone. “Very interesting. I thought I’d told you to take care of the problem.”

  “Why do you think we were waiting in ambush, damn it? You think I’m just letting them fuck us like this?” Gabriel is practically shouting into the phone, and Betsy, still examining the bodies, looks up at him in alarm, gives him a look like he’s cursing out a priest.

  “Do not lose your nerve.”

  “My nerve is solid, it’s the plan that’s fucked, don’t you get it? There’s at least two of these guys in the park, at least two of them, you understand me? They’re serious shooters, special forces, I don’t know. Don’t talk to me about my nerve, your plan is in fucking goddamn pieces!”

  “The plan is a good plan, and we will abide by it,” the Uzbek says complacently. Gabriel thinks he can hear water running in the background, an open tap, maybe a sink or bathtub, he’s not sure. “We are entering the final phase.”

  Gabriel squeezes his eyes tight shut, tries to calm himself, can’t manage to diminish what he’s feeling, the yawning lack of control. “The plan never accounted for resistance in the park. That was never part of the plan you gave me.”

  “There was always the possibility that one intelligence service or another would get wind of our designs. It’s immaterial now, and too late as well. Remember who you are and who you work for.”

  “I don’t fucking know who I work for,” Gabriel reminds the Uzbek.

  “You know enough. Just as you know that names mean nothing. Power, reach, expertise, those are everything. It’s all been accounted for, even this. You must trust me. Do you trust me?”

  “I’m trying to,” Gabriel says, thinking that this might be more honesty than is prudent.

  The Uzbek laughs softly. “We have always done well by you, always taken care of you. Do not despair now. Keep your nerve.”

  “My nerve isn’t the problem here.”

  “Your faith, then. The hostages were only ever to buy time, to prevent a full-scale assault. They continue to serve their purpose. If the opposition has the command post, use the hostages to draw them out and deal with them.”

  “You mean shoot more of them.”

  “That is what they’re there for. Have your old friend handle it. You have another task to manage.”

  “We need to talk about the exfil.” Gabriel looks to Betsy, sees that the other man is nodding in agreement. “We need to move up the timetable to get us out of here.”

  “Soon. Not yet. I need you to arm the device. The timer is already programmed. Just arm it, then contact me, and I will initiate exfil.”

  He can feel the sweat from his ear wet against the phone. Betsy still looking at him expectantly, waiting to hear how the fuck they’re getting out of this. Gabriel turns away from the other man.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Gabriel lowers his voice. “I heard you.”

  “The device is still under our control?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are certain?”

  Gabriel thinks, says, “Yes, I placed it out of sight. They can’t have found it. Even if they’ve got detection equipment, there’s no way they could’ve found it.”

  “Very good.”

  “I do this, do what you say…how much time does that give us for exfil?”

  “You’re worried you’ve become expendable, is that it?”

  “That’s exactly it.”

  The Uzbek chuckles. In the background, the sound of running water stops abruptly. Gabriel thinks he hears a woman’s voice, indistinct and faint.

  “Let me reassure you. You are not. The others are. All of them. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Gabriel thinks he does. Gabriel thinks the Uzbek is saying that he is worth time and money and potential to the Uzbek and his shadow master, even now, even after this; or, perhaps, because of all of this. But the others, Vladimir and Betsy and Charlie One and Charlie Two and the twenty-one remaining hostages in the park, they’re all meat for the block. Intuitively, he sees that it’s those bodies, those lives, that will buy Gabriel his escape.

  “I understand.”

  “Very good. Arm the device, then contact me. I will have the details of your exfil then.”

  “Wait,” Gabriel says. “You didn’t answer my question. Once it’s armed, how much time do we have?”

  “Enough.”

  The Uzbek hangs up.

  “He’s going to fuck us, isn’t he?” Betsy says.

  They’re tracking north, above ground, through Wild World, but staying as close to the trees as possible. Gabriel doesn’t want to risk the tunnels for the exact same reasons he avoided going into them after Bell earlier, and now, above ground, they’re certainly going to be showing up on camera. But he has no intention of making it easy for anyone who might be watching. Each time he spots one, he stops and raises the submachine gun, switches it to single-shot, then puts a round through the housing.

  “He says we’re almost through,” Gabriel answers. “Just have to do one more job and then we contact him for exfil.”

  “What job is that?”

  Gabriel ignores the question, stops, pulling back. He indicates yet another camera emplacement. Betsy sights and drills a round into it, then a second for good measure, and they continue on, hopping the rail that guards the slope down to the river. It’s a gentle enough drop, but it puts them five feet or so below the pathways, will make it that much harder to be spotted on any cameras they might miss.

  What job is that? Gabriel is thinking, It’s my fucking job. It’s the job where I kill God knows how many people. I’m just supposed to do my job.

  The Uzbek is going to burn them, he knows this. Perhaps he will not burn Gabriel himself, he wants to believe in his value to the man. But now he is all but positive that the others will be sacrificed to whatever end the Uzbek is advancing. They will all die. Bullets or bomb, the Uzbek will spend their lives freely.

  Pushing past a fern, he spots another camera, shoots it out, and as he feels the weapon kick in his hands, has a realization.

  He cannot do what the Uzbek is asking. He will not do what the Uzbek is asking. It is not in him to do it. Perhaps once, a lifetime away, he was the man who could do it. But that man did not have his life, did not have his dream, did not ever imagine a woman like Dana, who would love him, too. His job? He is the wrong man for this job.

  He will leave the dirty bomb as it is, unarmed, inert. The Uzbek is a liar, and nothing he says can be trusted. As much as Gabriel wishes to believe the Uzbek’s assurances, and through them believe that he matters, that loyalty matters, he knows better. Loyalty matters little to men like the Uzbek, and perhaps even less to the Uzbek’s master. They are men from that other lifetime, and there, in Odessa, only one thing ever mattered.

  Money.

  There is no money to be made in getting them out alive. That is an expense, that is not a profit. The Uzbek has never intended for them to leave the park. That is enough to make the decision for him. Gabriel has promised himself he will get through this day, he will put all this behind him, and he will reach Dana again. He will return to his dream, and then he will contact the Uzbek through their secret e-mail account, and he will tell him it is over, it is done. He will tell the Uzbek that he wants nothing more of him or his master, and that he knows enough to know too much. Leave me alone, Gabriel will write, or else everything I have done, everything I know of you, I will give that information to the authorities.

  I’m done, he thinks. Done with all this.

  Gabriel fishes out his radio, hesitates before keying it. Jonathan Bell took the radios from the bodies back at Wild World Live!—he knows that. Any transmission he makes, it could be overheard. They have to switc
h the coms.

  Abruptly, Gabriel breaks right, sprinting toward one of the clusters of mushroom houses near Smooch’s Park. Betsy stays on him, helps him at the locked door, the two of them kicking at it together before they manage to snap the lock free of its plate. It’s warm and still inside, and Gabriel is almost frantic, urgent.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Phone, there’s a park phone. Here.” He scrabbles the molded plastic box open, pulls the handset free, puts it to his ear. There’s a dial tone, and on the inside of the box’s door, a listing of numbers. Running his finger down it until he finds Hendar’s Lair, and he pulls out his radio again, jabs the transmit button twice, then twice more quickly, hoping everyone listening in understands. Hands the radio to Betsy.

  “Get the cameras, make sure there aren’t any cameras,” Gabriel says, and then he dials Hendar’s Lair, listens to the phone ring.

  And ring.

  And ring.

  Until finally, Vladimir answers. “That you?”

  “It’s me. Our coms are compromised, nothing on the radio, you understand? We use the landlines. You have a cell phone?”

  “I have a phone.”

  Gabriel rattles off his number. “Call me back.”

  He slams the handset down. He feels out of breath, tries to shake it off, to calm himself. In his pocket, his cell phone begins to vibrate. He frees it, answers.

  “Matias, what the fuck is going on?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll explain in a bit. What’s your status there?”

  “Everything is good. These deaf kids know how to stay quiet.”

  The satisfaction, the new confidence, the resolve, all of it trembles, threatens to collapse. Gabriel feels as if his throat is knotted, the adrenaline flooding his system. The beat of his heart speeding, the hunger of his quickened breathing. He is abruptly, acutely aware of the muscles in his right forearm, how they control his hand, how his hand holds the phone, how his thumb rests at the side, along the volume control.

  “What did you say?”

  “They know how to stay quiet.”

  Gabriel swallows. “How many of them?”