Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [82]
Instead of crossing the bridge — and making himself an easy target — Jack jumped over the railing and dropped twelve feet to the riding path below.
He landed with a grunt, his knee striking a fallen branch. Still clutching the Uzi, Jack rolled onto his back. Above him, his pursuers ran to the middle of the span, their shoes clomping on the wooden surface.
Jack aimed the Uzi and opened fire.
In the hail of 9mm bullets, men jerked and sparks struck off the wrought-iron rail. With a double thump, the last of the hunting posse hit the wooden deck.
Pumped with adrenaline, Jack lay for a moment, catching his breath. Then he heard sirens, far away, but getting closer.
Time to go.
Jack cast the empty Uzi into a clump of trees and stumbled to his feet. Face bleeding, knee throbbing, he limped toward the brightly illuminated mid-rise apartment buildings along Central Park South.
A few minutes later, Jack emerged from the trees at Fifty-seventh Street. Several cabs were lined up near the posh hotels, on the opposite side of the four-lane boulevard. Gratefully, Jack hailed one.
Using the edge of the Hawk's utility vest to wipe the blood and sweat from his face, Jack climbed into the backseat and gave the Sikh driver the Hudson Street address for CTU Headquarters.
The man nodded. "Yes, sir. Right away," he said, not at all surprised to find a bleeding man, wearing a black combat vest, crawling into his cab at two fifty-one in the morning.
21
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3:00 A.M. AND 4:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
3:00:46 A.M. EDT
Acorn Street
Boston, Massachusetts
Claudia Wheelock was dreaming of her two young children, scampering barefoot in front of her along the sand.
The Martha's Vineyard setting was achingly familiar, a beloved island where her family had spent so many long, lazy summers. Just ahead was her father's oceanfront shingle-style cottage. She was moved to tears, seeing him there again, relaxing on the wide, wooden porch, just as he had when he was alive. And her mother was nearby, laying out a luncheon of freshly made lobster rolls and sweet lemonade.
In her early forties now, Claudia was still a strikingly beautiful woman, with a fit figure and short blond hair. Her flaxen-haired children reflected that golden beauty as they ran ahead of her, giggling as they darted in and out of the white-capped surf. Claudia laughed, feeling the joy and luster of this moment, expecting all good things to be waiting for her and her children at the end of their little stroll...
Then came the crack of thunder.
The noise was sudden, almost deafening, and it completely shattered Claudia's safe, idyllic vision. Another boom came, this one strong enough to shake the walls of her sister's Federal-style row house on Beacon Hill.
Now Claudia was fully awake. For a moment, she lay staring at the ornamental tin ceiling, wondering if she'd dreamed the noises. But she could still hear the tail end of the last report. The rumbling echoed for several seconds through the narrow cobblestone streets before dissipating completely.
Claudia rose quickly, parted the guest room's lacy curtains, and peered outside. The night sky was clear, though suffused with a strange red glow. Then Claudia heard movement in the hallway. The night had been humid and warm, and she was wearing only a flimsy tank top and underwear. She quickly threw on a short, white terry-cloth robe.
Before she opened the door, something possessed Claudia to fish in her suitcase for the item her husband had pressed upon her last year, when an unbalanced fan of her novels had begun aggressively harassing her with e-mails and phone calls. The small handgun was there, still in its case. She checked to see if it was loaded, then slipped it into the pocket of her short robe.
When Claudia opened the door, her brother-in-law was already standing in the hallway, and her sleepy-eyed sister was peeking out of their master bedroom door.
"I think I heard a bomb going off," Claudia said.
"A bomb?" Roderick practically sneered. "Don't be ridiculous,