Ark of Fire (11 page)

A lesson well learned at the hands of his MI5 masters. Caedmon grabbed Edie by the shoulder, spinning her toward the stairs.

“But it’s quicker to take the escalator.”

“Quicker, perhaps, but far more dangerous.”

Side by side, they ascended the steps, the staircase deserted, unlike the crowded escalator on the opposite side of the antechamber, people packed onto it like frantic sheep being led to slaughter.

At the top of the stairs, they found themselves in a large vestibule where two matched bronze pumas stood sentry. On the far side of the vestibule the lift opened and a half dozen owl-faced patrons hurriedly spilled out. A few feet away, he sighted the public facilities marked with their respective male and female symbols. Just beyond the pumas was the Fourth Street lobby; the area was a veritable mob scene, with frantic museum goers running to and fro and harried guards attempting to corral them through the exit door.

Having evaluated the situation, Caedmon grabbed Edie by the hand and dragged her toward the WC. Shoving his shoulder against the swinging door, he pulled his companion into the ladies’ loo.

“What are you doing?” she screeched, the shrill sound echoing off the stark white tiles.

“Saving your life, I daresay.”

“But you’re a man! You’re not allowed in here!”

Ignoring her, he scanned the facilities.

Six stalls. Five sinks. No occupants.

He pushed open one of the middle stall doors.

“Did you hear me, Caedmon? I said that you’re not allowed—”

“Do calm down, will you?” He shoved her inside the stall, following on her coattails. “And while you’re at it, lower your voice. Getting into a dither will only make things worse than they already are.”

An adamant look on her face, she continued to protest the trespass. “But this is the ladies’ room.”

“Precisely why I chose it over the little boys’ loo. Mind you, it’s only a guess, but I seriously doubt our testosterone-driven assailant will think to look for us in here; the word
Ladies
will act as a natural deterrent. For the moment, at least, we’re safe.”

“Not to mention cramped like peas in a porcelain pod,” she muttered, awkwardly twisting her upper body as she straddled the toilet; the stall was barely wide enough to accommodate one person, let alone two.

After locking the stall door, Caedmon removed a visitors’ guide from his coat pocket, having picked up the map when he first arrived at the museum.

“Now what?”

“Now, we figure out how best to outwit our nemesis.” Unfolding the map, he held it in front of his chest. Edie, forced to stand on tiptoe, peered over his shoulder. “According to the map, there are five possible exits from the museum.”

“The nearest exit is no more than fifty feet away. That being the one we just passed.” Reaching over his shoulder, she jabbed her index finger at the nearby exit. “Right there. The Fourth Street exit. My Jeep is parked outside the door. We can be out of here in seconds. As in ‘Gentlemen, start your engines.’”

Caedmon negated her suggestion with a brusque shake of the head. “I have reason to suspect you were followed to the museum. Which means the Fourth Street exit will undoubtedly be manned by either the gunman or an accomplice. Our point of egress should be the most distant exit from our current position.”

She grabbed him by the upper arm, awkwardly turning him toward her. “Are you crazy? You’re talking about the Seventh Street exit!” she hissed in a highly agitated whisper. “That’s all the way on the other side of the National Gallery of Art. It’s three city blocks from where we’re at right now. If you think that’s a good plan, you’re totally insane!”

“Ah, I see my reputation precedes me.”

His mind made up, he refolded the map and replaced it in his breast pocket. Not bothering to ask permission, he searched the pockets of Edie’s pilfered trench coat. Discovering a black canvas rain bonnet, he handed it to her.

“Here, put this on.”

“Unh-uh.” She shook her head, brown curls buoyantly bouncing about her shoulders. “You might not care if you get a case of head lice, but I—”

“Don the cap,” he ordered, thinking her adamancy yet again misplaced. “Head lice can be cured with a bit of medicated shampoo. Resurrection is trickier to manage. As I speak, the gunman is searching the museum for two targets: a redheaded bugger and a curly-haired maiden. Trust me. We have danger in spades.”

“Not to mention hearts, clubs, and diamonds,” she muttered, stuffing her curls into the canvas bonnet.

“Much better,” he said, nodding his approval. “Come. We’ve tarried long enough.” He unlocked the stall and swung it open.

Edie stared at him, refusing to budge, her obstinacy now replaced with a look of fearful dread.

“Do you think we’ve got a chance of getting out of here alive?” she whispered.

Rather than make an empty promise he might not be able to keep, he said, “We shall find out soon enough.”

That’s what he had on his hands, a goddamned fiddle fuck.

Uncertain how things turned so bad so quickly, Boyd Braxton shoved his arms into his black turtleneck sweater. The unconscious Walter Jefferson was still sprawled on the floor of the janitor’s closet. Having retrieved his bundle of clothing from where he’d earlier stowed it, he’d returned to the closet, needing to reconnoiter. In a big-ass hurry, he yanked his black pants over the top of the blue pair he already wore. He didn’t give a rat’s ass how he looked. He just needed to
not
look like a janitor. Too many people had seen a janitor firing into the crowd. No way in hell would he be able to get out of the museum decked out like some numbnuts custodial worker.

He shoved the Ka-Bar and the Mark 23 into his waistband. Next he checked his cell, the phone programmed with a preset number to immediately warn him if the tracking device was activated.

He heaved a sigh of relief; the Jeep was still parked out front.

The bitch was in the museum. He could make this right. Wherever the bitch went, he would follow.

Yanking open the door of the janitor’s closet, he stepped across the threshold; the museum concourse was directly across from his present position.

Quickly he scanned the area.
Blown-out glass. A couple of overturned tables. Some broken plates.
The concourse was all assholes and elbows as people frantically sloshed across the wet floor, water having gushed from the fountain when the plate glass shattered. A sobbing woman in a tight-fitting suit, hobbled by a pair of stiletto heels, limped past. Boyd nearly gagged in her wake; the broad was doused in more perfume than a Bangkok whore.

Through the hole in the glass, he heard the blare of at least a half dozen police sirens. Any second, the place would be swarming with cops.

No sense looking for the Miller bitch; he already knew she’d fled the concourse, having earlier caught sight of her and that redheaded bastard heading toward the gift shop.

Obviously, the guy was a player. He had to be. Nobody had reflexes
that
quick unless he’d been trained. Maybe the redheaded bastard worked for a law enforcement agency. Whoever he worked for, it meant trouble.

Boyd strode over to where the Miller woman had been sitting and snatched a sheet of paper off the floor.

“Shit!”

On the sheet of paper were two hand-drawn sketches: one a drawing of the relic he’d earlier stolen from the Hopkins, the other the Jerusalem cross that he and every other man at Rosemont Security Consultants wore on his right ring finger.

As he continued to stare at the piece of paper, he caught sight of a Muslim couple; the wife wore a hijab and was hurriedly pushing a baby stroller as the kid bawled its head off. The couple stopped a few feet away from where he stood. The woman peered into the stroller, the kid bawling even louder.

The piece of paper in Boyd’s hand began to shake as his head suddenly exploded in a corona of pain.

Babies crying. Women crying. Everybody and their fucking Uncle Tom crying. Christ, you’d think he’d killed somebody. Like this was a goddamned war zone or something.
This
was nothing. A minor public disturbance. A custodial worker gone postal. Except this time around, nobody got killed.

And that was the problem. Somebody was supposed to have ended up dead.

Kill ’em. Kill ’em all. God will know his own.
Isn’t that what the colonel always said?

Still staring at the Muslim couple and their screaming baby, Boyd reached behind his back, his hand curling around the gun grip. Slowly he slid the Mark 23 from his waistband.
Papa, Mama, and Baby Bear.
One, two, three.

No sooner did he pull the gun free than his cell phone vibrated against his breastbone.

Boyd shoved his piece back into his waistband. Turning his back on the Muslim couple and their screaming brat, he reached for his cell. The digital display read
RSC
. Rosemont Security Consultants.

“Fuck.”

It was the colonel calling for a status report.

Feeling like Joe Shit the Ragman, he depressed the
Answer
button. Since the colonel hated what he referred to as
circumlocution
—what Boyd and everybody else with a twelfth-grade education called
beating around the bush
—he didn’t bother with the pleasantries. Instead, he simply said, “We’ve got a problem, sir. The target escaped, the place has turned into a three-ring circus, and the cops have just arrived.”

The statrep met with a moment’s silence; Boyd braced himself for a world-class ass chewing.

“Is the Miller woman still on the premises?” the colonel asked, his calm tone of voice taking Boyd by surprise. Usually this kind of fuckup would meet with a wrath second only to that of God Almighty.

“I believe so, sir. Her Jeep is still parked out front. I found a sheet of paper with two drawings: one of the relic, the other a Jerusalem cross. And one other thing, sir”—he hesitated, knowing the colonel would break his balls but good—“she’s hooked up with somebody. A tall guy with red hair. I’m not altogether certain, but he may be a player. What do you want me to do, sir?”

Another silence ensued. In the background, Boyd heard the muffled strains of several voices, the colonel having put him on the speakerphone. Then he heard what sounded like a file folder being opened.

“Gunnery Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stand by for further instruction.”

Colonel Stanford MacFarlane took a moment to review the dossier just handed to him. Turning his back on his chief of staff, he discreetly removed his reading glasses from his breast pocket. He despised weakness of any sort, particularly in himself. Though he was physically fit, there were days when he felt each and every one of his fifty-three years.

Adjusting the reading glasses on his nose, he glanced at the file. With his contacts inside the intelligence office of the Undersecretary of Defense, he’d managed to finagle a full dossier on one Caedmon St. John Aisquith.