Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [40]
Ahern visibly relaxed. "I told you they were expecting us."
Holman studied the guards as the bus passed through the gate.
In weeks of surveillance, he'd never seen the main gate guarded by anyone but tough-looking former felons in their prime, all of them Americans. But these two guys looked Middle Eastern, and they were probably pushing eighty.
Reverend Ahem pulled a copy of Ibrahim Noor's e-mail out of the pocket of his black shirt. As he read, he adjusted his clerical collar.
"Just go straight ahead until you reach the Community Center," he told the driver.
The bus bumped through the center of town. To Holman the place seemed abandoned. Of course, the men were probably working at the factory, but the women should have been out and about.
Finally, a man with a rifle slung across his back stepped in their path, waving his arms.
"I think he wants us to stop," Ahern said.
The bus halted in a cloud of dust, in front of a large building made of unpainted cinder blocks. The aluminum screen door opened, and a woman in a black burka exited the building. Though her features were obscured, she carried a bundle of flowers in her tattooed hands.
"That's nice," Mrs. Cranston said.
Emily cut the engine, and Reverend Ahern opened the sliding door. Before he could step out, a howling mob of people burst from the Community Center and charged the bus. Another mob rushed out of the communal baths next door. They were women, mostly, along with a smattering of young boys and girls and old men. The males had guns. The women carried knives, clubs, axes.
The mob swarmed the bus, threatening to tip the vehicle over on its side. Reverend Ahern was assaulted and pummeled into unconsciousness. Emily Reed tried to restart the engine and drive away, but an old man fired an ancient pistol at her through the windshield. The bullet struck her right eye, killing the woman instantly.
Brice Holman kicked the first person to reach for him. The woman howled and fell to the floor. Clawing and screaming like animals, the rest of the pack crushed her in an effort to get at the passengers.
Holman heard Dani scream. Mr. Simonson lunged at the women attacking the teenager, knocked them aside. Then someone stuck the man in the throat with a machete. He went down spewing blood.
Holman lashed out again, his fist striking flesh. Then someone struck him on the back of the head and his world went dark...
* * *
2:39:06 P.M. EDT
Newark General Hospital
Tony Almeida ducked behind a pillar and observed the white-smocked kid he fingered for the murder of the guard. The Hispanic youth was standing near the ER, talking into a cell phone. No doubt he was reporting his situation, which was dire.
Fifteen minutes ago, Tony discovered that hospital security and the Newark Police had sealed the hospital exits, effectively trapping the murderer inside the facility.
Almeida had located the punk at around the same time, but decided not to move against him in the crowded lobby. Tony watched while the killer drifted over to an emergency fire exit, preparing to push through. He got a surprise when the door suddenly opened from the outside, and two uniformed cops entered — and walked right past him.
The close call obviously spooked the youth. Still on the phone, he slipped into a nearby stairwell. Tony followed, pausing at the steel door long enough to turn off his own cell — the last thing he needed was the phone to ring.
As soon as he entered the stairwell, Tony heard the man's muffled voice, his footsteps on the stairs. Cautiously, Tony climbed, Glock in hand. It took five flights before he finally caught up with the kid. The youth had just ended his call and was heading back the way he came.
Tony leveled his gun on the punk, who stumbled backward, tripping on the steps. The kid fell onto the fifth-floor landing.
"Don't move or I'll shoot," Tony said evenly.
On his back, the kid threw up his arms. He couldn't have been more than seventeen