MADRID
After they had pulled onto San Leonardo de Dios, Ramirez had managed to find a parking spot right on the road. The gate that Kealey and Pétain had first entered was about 40 meters in front of the van, and the street farther down was partially blocked off by a pair of CNP vehicles. The light racks on both were flashing blue, but the sirens were off. A number of pedestrians had gathered around, and Naomi knew it was only a matter of time before more police units arrived on the scene. The demonstration on the Puerta del Sol would slow the response time, but not by much. They had to move immediately.
Ramirez was saying something to her through the hole in the partition, and she shifted her attention toward him. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ I heard you talking to Pétain, and there’s no way you’re going in there, Kharmai. I’m not going to let you fuck up my career as well.” He leaned forward to start the engine. “I’m done with this shit. We’re out of here.”
“No!” Kharmai adjusted her awkward stance, drew her Glock, and aimed it through the gap in the metal. The muzzle was level with the other operative’s astonished face.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he rasped, his dark eyes fixed on the end of the barrel.
Naomi shifted her aim slightly to the right. She steadied herself before she spoke, determined to make him believe. For this to work, there could be no doubt in his mind that she’d pull the trigger.
“Ramirez, there’s an alley just ahead on your right. I want you to start the van and pull it inside.”
“Or what?”
“Or I fire through the windshield. There are still two officers in those cars up ahead. They’re both behind the wheel. If I shoot, they’ll be on us in less than a minute.”
“You would do that? You would fuck us both?”
“Yes. If I have to, I will. Absolutely.” She looked at him hard, hoping he couldn’t see past her rigid, unyielding façade. Hoping her hands weren’t shaking too much. Hoping he couldn’t detect the cold flash of fear and nausea that had just swept through her body.
“Start the van.”
Ramirez shook his head in disbelief, but he did as he was told. The vehicle rumbled to life, and he dropped it into gear. Naomi kept her gun at arm’s length until they were in the alley and parked. Then she turned and opened the sliding door. Closing it behind her, she circled the vehicle and approached the driver’s-side door carefully from the rear, hoping he wouldn’t try to back up in the confined space. There wasn’t much room between the left side of the Toyota and the redbrick walls, and if he decided to make a run for it, she would almost certainly be crushed. She realized she should have taken the keys, but it was too late for that now. Once she reached the open window, she aimed her gun in at Ramirez. She wasn’t surprised in the least to see that he was holding a weapon as well, the muzzle aimed across his body, directly toward her head.
“What now?” he asked. His dark, unwavering eyes were fixed on hers. “You shoot me, I shoot you . . . We both end up dead. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want to kill you,” she said. Her stomach felt as if it had been pulled out, shaken hard, then put back in. She could feel sweat on her face and beneath her T-shirt. It felt cold, despite the heat of the afternoon. In fact, it felt as if her entire body had just been submerged in a pool of freezing water. “Just get out and walk away. That’s all I’m asking.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Ramirez held her gaze for a moment longer, debating his options.
Then he nodded and pushed open the door. She stepped back and tracked him with her weapon as he walked to the end of the alley. He turned and gave her one last look before disappearing into the crowds sweeping by on the sidewalk.
Naomi instantly shoved the Glock under the waistband of her jeans, the grip flat against the right side of her stomach. Then she lifted the lower edge of her T-shirt to wipe the sweat from her face. A sudden wave of nausea caused her to bend at the waist. She kept one hand on the van’s rear bumper for support and stayed that way for twenty seconds, trying to empty her stomach, but nothing came up. She shuddered, a low, involuntary moan rising up in her throat. Then she straightened and leaned against the rear doors, considering her next move, straining to think through the haze that enveloped her mind. The sound of another siren broke her concentration. It was the last thing she wanted to hear, but she instantly factored it in. Turning her head to the right, she could tell the siren was coming from the same direction as the other cars. Thinking back to the maps they had studied the previous night, she recalled that the closest CNP station was to the north, which made sense, given what she was hearing. She lifted her cell phone and stared at it blankly. She knew that Ryan would be expecting her to call any minute with a plan for getting them out of there, but her brain wasn’t working. What she needed was a way to distract the officers, to draw their attention away from the trailer. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do; Ryan and Pétain would just have to figure it out from there. Taking a couple of steps away from the van, she quickly appraised her surroundings. The alley was empty except for a few battered dumpsters and a pile of empty boxes. Power lines ran the length of the wide corridor, the wooden poles wedged against the redbrick wall on either side. An advertisement for some type of Spanish beer was painted in bright colors on the uneven bricks to her right, just beneath the second-floor windows, most of which were open to the afternoon air. Farther down the alley, there was an open door, beyond which she could hear the sound of machinery and tinny music. There was a lot to take in, but nothing that could help her. She tried to focus on the noise coming from the open doorway. It was on the left, about 10 meters in front of her. As she moved closer, the sounds became more distinct: music playing over a portable stereo, someone laughing, the steady thunk thunk thunk of an impact wrench. She thought back to what she had seen through the windshield when Ramirez swung the van into the alley. There had been a store of some kind on the right, and something else to the left . . . an auto-body repair shop. That was what she was hearing now, she realized—the sound of a mechanic working on a vehicle. What kind of vehicle, she didn’t know, but that didn’t matter. The noise seemed to draw her forward regardless.
She reached the doorway, edged closer, and peered into the shop. She pulled back instantly, her breath catching in her throat. There was a young man in coveralls right there, walking past the door. She was sure he had seen her, but the heavy footsteps seemed to recede, and after another twenty seconds, she looked in again. She didn’t see anyone this time, but when she took a few cautious steps into the bay, she heard voices coming from another door to her left. That was the store, she realized; the mechanic must have gone inside for some reason, maybe to answer a customer’s question, or perhaps to get a drink of water. Either way, she didn’t have a lot of time; he could return at any minute.
Naomi moved farther into the bay and looked around quickly, her heart pumping hard, every nerve on edge. There were two partially dismantled vehicles in the garage, and both bay doors were closed, blocking out the view of the street. There were windows on the upper parts of both doors, but both were extremely dirty. No one could see in, and she couldn’t see out. Shelves to her left were stocked with oil, dusty boxes of air filters, and bottles of antifreeze. On the other side of the door was a large metal toolbox, the kind with wheels and dozens of drawers.
She turned back toward the alley. Her eyes instantly fell on an object just inside the door. A number of objects, actually. Two metal tanks were chained together and resting on a hand trolley. She moved closer and studied both tanks, listening carefully for the sound of approaching footsteps. One tank came up to her waist. It was painted a pale shade of green, and there were two gauges sticking out from a brass valve at the top. A hose ran out from the valve, but she couldn’t see where it went, as it was wrapped into a bulky mass on the other side of the cart. The second cylinder was unpainted and about twothirds the size of the first. It also had two gauges, and a red hose ran out from the top. Looking closer, she realized the hoses were joined along their length with plastic ties, and both ran into some kind of metal fitting at the top. Most interesting of all were the markings on each tank. The larger read OXYGEN in bold letters. The smaller was marked ACETYLENE.
This was what she was looking for. Without hesitation, she moved behind the trolley, grabbed the handles, and dropped her weight forward. The tanks rocked back on the trolley, and she wheeled them around, carefully navigating the slight bump where the door frame met the asphalt. Soon she had the trolley out in the alley and next to the van. Letting go of the handles, she thought for a moment, then peered in through the driver’s window, searching for the fuel gauge. She found it quickly and immediately realized that since the van wasn’t running, the gauge wasn’t any use to her. She debated starting it up to see how much fuel was in the tank, but then decided not to waste the time. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could go and fill it up if it was low.
Moving back to the trolley, she carefully wheeled it next to the rear fender, then lowered it onto its handles. With a little effort, she managed to wedge the trolley behind the rear tire on the driver’s side. Both tanks were now parallel to the ground, approximately 7 inches above the asphalt. Stepping back, Naomi appraised her work. She had no idea if her plan would work. The gauges seemed to indicate that the cylinders were nearly full, but she couldn’t be sure of the end result. She had worked with all kinds of explosives at Camp Peary, but the training regimen had not included a lecture on the explosive properties of acetylene. Or oxygen, for that matter. Still, this was the only thing she had at hand, and she didn’t have time to consider another course of action. She examined the tanks once more, then hesitated, thinking about the Glock 9mm tucked into the top of her jeans. It occurred to her that the tanks would be well constructed, considering what they contained, and when she squeezed the trigger, she’d have to be as far away as possible. A 9mm round might not be powerful enough to penetrate both cylinders.
Jogging around to the other side of the van, she pulled open the door and climbed inside. Opening the lockbox bolted to the floor, she checked the inventory. There was one weapon left inside, a ParaOrdnance P14. She could tell from the size of the gun that it was chambered for .45 ACP cartridges, but she checked one of the fully loaded magazines to be sure. Satisfied, she pushed the magazine into the well and chambered a round. Then she climbed out of the van and shut the door. As she walked back toward the street, she pulled out her phone, hit the speed dial, and lifted it to her ear. Pétain answered a second later.
“I’m set on this end,” Naomi said.
“What do you want us to do?”
“You’re still inside the trailer, right?”
“Yes.”
“Wait thirty seconds, then move. You might still have to deal with one or two, but that’s better than half a dozen. Whatever you do, don’t head for the gate you entered through. It looks like all the police cars are sitting on the east side of the site, so head for the opposite gate. Okay?”
“Got it. What will you—”
“I’ll be in touch when I can,” Naomi said, anticipating the question. “If I can. Just try to get clear. Did you get what you needed?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Then good luck.”
Naomi hit the END button without waiting for a response. Slipping the phone back into her pocket, she did her best to conceal the P14 as she reached the street, holding it down behind her right thigh. She turned and looked back at the tanks, squinting into the afternoon sun. The van was sitting about 15 meters away, which meant it was much, much too close. Still, she had run out of room. If she kept walking, she would be out of the alley and back in plain view, where someone might catch sight of the gun and raise the alarm. There was an overflowing dumpster to her left. Moving behind it, she dropped to one knee and raised the weapon with both hands. She aimed at the first cylinder, careful to expose as little of her body as possible. It was no good; her hands were shaking, and her breath was ragged. The nausea was worse than ever. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to relax. Then she opened her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and squeezed the trigger. The air inside the trailer was incredibly thick, both operatives waiting on edge for whatever Naomi was going to do. Kealey had already pulled off his T-shirt and used the damp cotton to wipe most of Ghafour’s blood from his hands and arms. Looking around, he found a couple of discarded flannel shirts on the couch near the door—too warm for this kind of weather, too conspicuous, but they would have to suffice. He pulled one on and tossed the second to Pétain, whose eyes were locked on Ghafour’s still form. She caught the shirt at the last possible second and looked over.
“What do you want me to do with this?”
“Put it on,” he told her. “We’ll wear the hard hats out of here. It won’t help much, but a few seconds of confusion is better than nothing at all.”
She nodded her consent and pulled on the oversized shirt. As she zipped up the front, she gestured to Ghafour and said, “What about him?”
Kealey glanced over, then returned his gaze to the door. “He’s dead. How long has it been?”
He sensed more than saw Pétain look at her watch. “Forty seconds,” she murmured. “Why haven’t we heard anything?”
“Give her time. Just listen for movement out—”
The second part of his sentence was cut off by a distant boom. As the noise faded away, Kealey heard the officers shifting around outside. There was a babble of voices, then the sound of fast-moving feet. He realized that some of them must be moving back to the street in response to the explosion. Moving carefully, quietly, he stepped forward, separated the blinds, and looked outside. There were two officers left. Both were facing the street, their backs to the trailer. The others were running across the site, toward the east gate. Beyond the chain-link fence, Kealey could see a thick pall of smoke rising into the clear blue sky. It was a strange, disconcerting sight, but he recognized the diversion for what it was: the only thing that might get them out of there in one piece.
“Grab the money,” he said.
“What?”
“Get the fucking money, ” Kealey repeated. He crossed to the door as Pétain lifted the duffel bag off the couch, slinging it over her shoulder. She hung back as Kealey crouched beside the door, preparing himself for what was about to happen. “Going in three,” he murmured.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
Kealey put his hand on the door and began to count. When he hit three, he flung open the door and took in the scene, moving forward the whole time. Both officers started to turn at the noise. The first was about 3 feet from the door.
“¡Ayúdenos!” Kealey shouted. “That guy in there is crazy!”
The closest officer hesitated as he turned, his eyes looking past Kealey to the open door. It gave Kealey the split second he needed. His right foot shot out, catching the officer beneath the left knee. He started to go down as Kealey pushed off his right foot, shifting his weight to the left. It was a fast movement, but not fast enough. The second officer’s right arm swung around with surprising speed, and Kealey had no choice. He fired once but didn’t see where his round hit. The officer started to fall back as Pétain advanced, her gun drawn, and aimed . . .
Kealey turned back to the first officer. He was clutching his knee and groaning, his service weapon lying a few feet away in the dirt. Kealey leaned down and snatched it up, then shoved it into the deep right pocket of his work shirt. He removed his hard hat, tossed it aside, and turned to Pétain. She had already collected the other man’s weapon; her FN Forty-Nine was still trained on the fallen officer, whose hands were raised in surrender. Looking closer, Kealey could see that his round had hit the man in the right side of his abdomen. As long as the wound was treated soon, it wouldn’t be lifethreatening.
“Let’s go,” Kealey said. Pétain nodded her assent, but he didn’t see her acknowledge his words. His attention was focused on the west gate, the one Naomi had told them to use. Kealey could see right away that it wouldn’t work; a number of construction workers were standing in their way, and their attention was riveted on what had just happened outside the trailer. A few looked like they wanted to interfere, but not one of them dared to advance. Kealey realized they had seen the whole thing. They had seen him attack, then shoot the officer. Apparently, none of the workers were willing to risk a similar fate. He turned and started to run for the east gate, his feet pounding over the dry, uneven ground. He shouted over his shoulder for Pétain to follow, but she was already there, sprinting less than 3 feet to his rear.
“Kealey, what are you doing?” she panted between breaths. “This isn’t the right—”
“You saw them,” he shouted back at her. “This is the only way out.”
“But the police are—”
“I know, but we don’t have a choice. Just keep moving! ”