Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [122]
Seemed to strike? …
Feinted? …
The knife blade shivered forward with accuracy and fierceness …
The surgical knife blade drove several inches into its target area. The long, piercing needle disappeared into the flesh and bone of Monserrat’s rib cage. Monserrat kept coming.
The knife blade was twisted, then pulled away, unplugged it seemed.
The stiletto was thrust forward again. This time it split the center of Monserrat’s throat. Blood gushed everywhere.
The terrorist’s legs suddenly went limp. He began to convulse. His face no longer seemed smug—no longer confident and in control. Monserrat was surprised, in shock as he fell forward.
Carroll hadn’t known whom to shoot. He’d watched, waiting for the victor. He trained his Browning on Colonel Hudson now. His finger tightened, turned to stone around the trigger.
Suddenly he heard the distinct click of yet another automatic weapon!
The disturbing sound came from directly behind him in the thickening smoke.
Carroll started to whirl around.
His mind was suspended by pain and the moment’s chaos. He needed all of the madness to stop for a moment.
He saw men he thought he recognized. Four men in tattered khaki green were closing around him on the Brooklyn rooftop. Their M-21s were pointed at him.
They looked like soldiers Carroll had fought with years before. They were Vets, he realized. This was Green Band.
Here was everything he’d wanted to know—only now Carroll didn’t want to know it.
The outrage continued.
The outrage.
Walter Trentkamp’s throat had been slashed. His coat had spread open like an umbrella in the wind. His chest was bloodied, redness seeping down into his trousers. His eyes were already glazed and sightless. Christ! Christ!
Carroll tried to grab hold of something. He began to shout at the top of his voice. “Who are you, Hudson? What the hell do you want? Who sent you to Wall Street?”
Outrage!
Something hard crashed, the most brutal force exploded against the top of Carroll’s head.
His skull was crushed so easily.
He staggered, he almost fell, but he stayed upright. The insane streetfighter inside him wouldn’t go down.
Goddamn! Them!
Carroll saw streaks of blood merging. He felt as if he must be going blind. The pain and chaos, the sudden light show was unbearable inside his skull.
“Who are you, Hudson?” One final, maddening question formed on his lips. He had no idea whether he spoke the words or not.
He took another step toward Hudson, toward the fallen body of Monserrat—of Walter Trentkamp.
The metal base of the revolver fell on his skull again. It struck the same tender spot, harder than the first time.
A terrible, mashing noise echoed inside Carroll’s brain. Fire lit on the left side of his chest.
He was falling then, collapsing against his will. Carroll heard himself moaning. He had the thought that he was choking on his own blood. So sad, so wrong.
The revolver crashed down another time.
He spun around and saw Hudson rigidly standing there. Carroll tried to speak. Shit, he couldn’t. He had so many questions. He fought the onrushing unconsciousness with the strength he had left. Not much. Not enough!
Chapter 95
WITH A SHAKING HAND, Anton Birnbaum poured Sandeman port for himself and for Caitlin.
He felt at least a thousand years old.
He had a piercing headache from his recent sleeplessness and hyperactive mental activity. Now, in the thin daylight that streaked his apartment, he went to the window and peered into the streets of his beloved New York.
Caitlin Dillon, whose head also reeled from the hours of intense concentration without sleep, took a cigarette from her purse and started to light it. She changed her mind. Her throat was raw and there was a heavy pressure behind her eyes. What she needed, she knew, was a long sleep. Both she and Birnbaum were waiting for final news of Green Band, news from Carroll. Caitlin now understood what it was like, to be a policeman’s wife.
“We know some of what we need to know,” Birnbaum said. “Two years ago, in Tripoli, Monserrat met with