Part 25 (1/2)
Squirming fiercely backward, hoping to seek cover in the darkness of the living room, Decker shouted at the man whom he still thought of as Dale Hawkins. ”Who's shooting at us? Tell them to hold their fire!”
But Hawkins had a look of absolute incomprehension.
Decker heard angry voices beyond the back door. He heard gla.s.s shatter at the front. As he spun to aim in that direction, intense detonations threatened to burst his eardrums. One, two, three, four. Almost pa.s.sing out, Decker shoved his hands to his ears and then his eyes, desperate to s.h.i.+eld them, because the concussions were matched by blinding flashes that seared past his eyeb.a.l.l.s into his brain.
Moaning reflexively, unable to stop his nervous system's automatic response to such intense pain, he fell to the floor, powerless against the flash-bang grenades that were intended to disable without permanently harming. In a turbulent recess of his mind, Decker knew what was happening-he had used flash-bangs on many occasions.
But knowledge was no defense against primal panic. Before he had a chance to overcome his pain and reacquire his presence of mind, his gun was kicked from his hand. Deaf and blind, he was grabbed and yanked to his feet. He was shoved out a door. He fell on a sidewalk and was dragged to his feet. Hands pushed him off a curb. Suddenly weightless, he was thrown to the right. He landed hard on a metal floor, felt other bodies being hurled in with him, and vaguely realized that he must be in a vehicle. A van, he thought, dazed. The metal floor tilted as men scrambled in. With several jolts, doors were slammed. The van sped away.
4.
”You searched them?” a gruff voice demanded.
”In the house.”
”Do it again.”
”But we've got all their weapons.”
”I told you, do it again. I don't want any more surprises.” Disoriented, Decker felt hands pawing over him, rolling him over, pressing, probing. His traumatized vision had begun to correct itself. His ears rang painfully, so that the voices he heard seemed to come from a distance.
”He's clean,” another gruff voice said.
”So are the others.”
”Okay,” the first voice said. He sounded as if he had gravel stuck in his throat. ”It's time for show-and-tell. Hey.”
The van made a swerving motion, presumably turning a corner. Its engine roared louder. Decker had the sensation of increased speed.
”Hey,” the gravelly voice repeated.
Decker felt movement beside him.
”That's right. You. I'm talking to you.”
Decker scrunched his eyelids shut, then opened them again, blinking, his sight improving. Bright spots in his vision began to dissolve. They were replaced by oncoming headlights that glared through a winds.h.i.+eld-a lot of headlights. Freeway traffic. Decker saw that he had been right to believe he was in a van. The rear compartment in which he lay had no seats. Three men with handguns faced him. They were crouched at the front end of the vehicle. Beyond them were a driver and a man in the pa.s.senger seat, who had his head turned, staring back.
”Yes, you,” the man with the gravelly voice repeated. Flanked by gunmen, he was husky, with thick dark hair and a sallow complexion, olivelike. In his thirties. Wearing expensive shoes, well-cut slacks, a designer s.h.i.+rt, and a tailored windbreaker, all of them dark. Decker noted that the other men in the van had a similar appearance.
Ready with his weapon, the man leaned forward and nudged someone lying next to Decker. When Decker looked, he saw that it was the man he thought of as Dale Hawkins.
”You, for Christ sake,” the man said. ”Sit up. Pay attention.”
Dazed, Hawkins pushed himself to a sitting position and slumped against the side of the van.
Although the ringing was still painful, Decker's eardrums felt less compromised. He was able to hear the driver complain, ”Another one! Jesus, these drivers are nuts. What are they, drunk? They think this is Indianapolis. They keep cutting in front of me. Any closer, they'd have my front b.u.mper as a souvenir.”
The man who seemed in charge didn't pay attention to the driver; instead, he kept staring at Hawkins, who was on Decker's left. On Decker's right, Hal sat up slowly.
”So this is how it works,” the husky man said. ”We know Decker has no idea where the woman is. Otherwise, he wouldn't be running around trying to find her. But he must think you know where she is.” The man gestured forcefully toward Hawkins. ”Otherwise, he wouldn't have driven all the way from Santa Fe to Albuquerque to break into your house and question you when you came home.”
The roiling, breathless effects of adrenaline seized Decker's body. Everything was happening terribly fast, but despite the light-headedness and nausea that resulted when neither a fight nor flight response was possible, Decker struggled to keep his presence of mind, to pay attention to as many details as he could.
He continued to be struck by the man's dark eyes, strong features, and olivelike complexion. Italian, he decided. The group was Italian. The same as last night. Rome. This all goes back to what happened in Rome, he thought with a chill. But how?
”I'll make it simple for you,” the man in charge told Hawkins. ”Tell me what Decker wanted you to tell him.” With a curse, the van's driver swerved sharply as another car cut in front of him.
”Where is Diana Scolari?” the man in charge asked.
For a moment, Decker was certain that his traumatized eardrums were playing tricks on him, distorting the sound of words. Beth Dwyer. Surely that's what the man had asked. Where is Beth Dwyer? But the movement of the man's lips did not match Beth's name. Diana Scolari. That was the name the man had used. But who the h.e.l.l was Diana Scolari?
”I don't know,” Hawkins said. His skin had turned gray with fear. His speech was forced as if his mouth was dry. ”I have no idea where she is.”
The man in charge shook his head with disappointment. ”I told you I wanted to make this simple for you. I asked you a question. You're supposed to give me the answer I need. No muss, no fuss.”
The man picked up a tire iron, raised it, and whacked it against Hawkins's s.h.i.+n.
Hawkins screamed, clutching his leg.
”And if you do what you're told, no pain,” the man in charge said. ”But you're not cooperating. Do you honestly expect me to believe that the U.S. marshal”-he held up Hawkins's badge-”a.s.signed to make sure that Diana Scolari settles herself into Santa Fe doesn't know where she's run to?” The man whacked the tire iron near Hawkins's other leg, causing the floor to rumble, making Hawkins wince. ”Do you think I'm that stupid?”
Hawkins's throat sounded parched as he insisted, ”But I wasn't the only one. There was a team of us. We took turns checking in with her, so none of us would stand out. I haven't seen her since the first of the month.”
The husky man again whacked the tire iron against the metal floor. ”But you knew she ran off today.”
”Yes.” Hawkins swallowed with difficulty.
Whack! The tire iron struck the floor yet again. ”Which means you've been in contact with the rest of the team. Do you expect me to believe you weren't told where the rest of the team has got her holed up?”
”That information is on a need-to-know basis. They told me I didn't need to know.” Hawkins's voice sounded like sandpaper.
”Oh, did they really? Well, that's too bad for you, because if you don't know anything, you're useless, and I might as well kill you.” The man pointed his handgun at Hal. ”I know who Decker is. But who are you?”
”n.o.body.”
”Then what good are you?” The man's weapon had a sound suppressor. The pistol made the m.u.f.fled report of a hand striking a pillow.
Hal fell back and lay still.
Decker's heartbeat lurched.
The sudden silence in the van was emphasized by the roar of traffic outside. The driver swerved, avoiding a car that changed lanes without warning. ”These jerks. I don't believe it. They think this is a stock-car race. They're out of their minds.”
The husky man continued to ignore the driver, concentrating hard on Hawkins. ”Do I have your full attention now? One down. Next comes Decker. And after that, guess who?”
”You'll kill me, anyway,” Hawkins said. ”Why should I tell you anything?”