Kill Alex Cross - James Patterson [74]
He was even paler than when she’d left him. It looked like he’d lost a good deal of blood. Tariq was becoming a liability.
“Did you get it?” he asked.
“Some of it,” Hala answered, and knelt down where he was sitting propped against the brick wall. From inside her shirt, she pulled out a small bottle of Tylenol, a roll of gauze, and an Ace bandage. It was as much as she’d been able to lift at the drugstore without being seen.
“Let me see your hand,” she said. “Please. Let me see.”
She pulled away the strip of shirt cloth she’d used to wrap Tariq’s wound the night before. It was in horrendous shape. The bullet had passed right through, probably shattering the metacarpal of his right thumb as it did. He had no flexion, no extension at all. If they didn’t get proper medical attention, and soon, she was going to have to start cutting away the dead and dying flesh.
That part, she kept to herself.
He moaned as she rewrapped it, using the gauze first, then the Ace bandage. Pressure was the only tool she had at her disposal for now, but she could see the agony it put him in.
When she held out several of the Tylenol, he shook his head.
“Hala, please,” he said. “It’s not enough. You know what I want.”
She did. That was exactly why she’d taken the cyanide from him. Both of their capsules were now in her pocket, where she intended them to stay.
The only other thing they had left to their name was Hala’s Sig Sauer pistol. Everything else — their passports, money, computer, all of it — was back at the Four Seasons. It might as well have been locked in a vault. Even on her quick trip to the drugstore and back, Hala had seen her own grainy image gracing the cover of several newspapers.
They didn’t even have the means to get themselves out of Washington. This godforsaken city had become their prison — and Tariq knew it. The empty, defeated look in his eyes said everything she needed to know.
“Please, Hala,” he tried again. “There’s no dishonor in this. We’ve done all we can.”
She pressed the Tylenol into his hand. “Take them,” she said. “Trust me, my love. We’re not done yet. Not even close.”
There was still one possibility she could think of. It was a risk, but less extreme than the option at the bottom of her pocket.
When she got up to leave again, Tariq reached after her like a child who couldn’t bear to be left alone. “Where are you going?” he moaned.
“Not far,” she said. “Just wait here. I’ll be back for you. I promise.”
HALA LEFT TARIQ at the back of the alley and crossed the street to the bus station.
There was every reason to feel terrified right now, but she wasn’t. The more Tariq seemed to be giving up, the more determined she became. Their backs were against the wall, and so what? They’d been there before. They had trained hard for just this eventuality.
And, if the worst did happen — if the capsules proved necessary in the end — there were still nine rounds left in her gun. That meant nine more Americans who would die before she did.
Inside the mostly deserted bus terminal, she crossed the waiting area to a small bank of battered and heavily graffitied pay phones at the back. Surprisingly enough, the first one she picked up gave a dial tone, and she pressed zero.
It took an irritating amount of time to place the call — overseas, collect, to Saudi Arabia. The American operator was virtually useless.
But then all at once a familiar voice was there on the other end of the line, accepting the charges.
“Hala, darling, is it you?” her mother said in Arabic. “Where are you?”
“Still in America, Mama,” Hala said. It was strange, using her native language after so many weeks of English. “Our business isn’t done here yet. Tariq and I are staying on First Street. Between K and L.”
“I don’t know what that means, Hala. K and L?”
“It’s where we’re staying right now,” she said.
“But when are you coming home?” her mother wanted to know. “Fahd and Aamina ask about you every day. They miss you so much.”
Hala squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that wanted to come. She mustn’t do anything