Sixty days and counting - Kim Stanley Robinson [193]
“I’m going to leave that here and follow her,” Frank said.
The man frowned.
“Is there anyone following me?” Frank asked.
“No,” the one in back said. “It looks like they’re just going for her.”
“I’m going over there,” he said, and snatched the hand axe out of his jacket pocket and jumped back out into the dusk.
“Stay out of the way.”
He was still hearing the team comms in his right ear. Someone said her tick was now taking pings. Source not yet IDed. These devices had to be pinged from within a couple hundred yards. Frank started to run, dashing across Rock Creek Parkway during a too-small gap in the traffic, then racing across the black grass to Virginia Avenue, so much darker than usual, it was normally a very well-lit street. The headlights of passing vehicles destroyed night vision without illuminating much outside the road; they made things worse. Another voice complained that dense ping traffic in the area was making it difficult to identify sources; possibly there were decoys. Frank felt a stab of fear and ran harder still. Decoys? Had Caroline’s ex seen this ambush coming, and taken steps to circumvent it?
It was hard to tell who was saying what. A police car with siren screaming zoomed through the momentarily still traffic. Some of the buildings with generators were lighting up. Frank said, “Can you patch me into her wire?”
“Yeah.” There was a click, and then he could hear her whisper: “I’m going past the Watergate. I’m not sure what to do. It’s well-lit here.”
“Stick to the plan,” someone said.
“I just saw them,” she said. “I’m going to step into this espresso shop on the southeast side of the Watergate, they’ve got a generator going.”
“Okay. Stay cool now. They won’t want any fuss.”
Someone else said, “We have visual.”
“On her or the tail?”
“Both!”
By now Frank was running as hard as he could around the northeastern curve of the Watergate complex, hand axe at the ready, thinking that a man hit by tasers might spasm so violently as to pull a trigger, or might shoot for the head on sight—
Caroline was being escorted out the shop door by two men, one on each side of her, both holding her by the arm. Their backs were to him; Frank drew up short as he would have in the woods. Cooper was to her right, looking down at her, saying something though his jaw was set. Frank hefted the hand axe, grasped it like a skipping stone. “Come on guys,” he whispered.
Then Cooper stopped and looked around, and began to pull something from his jacket. Figures leaped from the dark as Frank threw the stone over-hand. It was a perfect throw, but by the time it had flashed through the night to its target, Cooper had been flattened to the ground; the stone flew over him and his tacklers and hit one of the SWAT guys square in his flak-jacketed chest. The man’s rifle came up and pointed right at Frank, and three or four others did as well. For a moment everything froze; Frank found his hands were up over his head, palms out.
No one shot him. Then fifty yards down the road a brief scrum erupted. Some of the rifles got redirected that way. Off to the side another sudden group coalesced out of the dark, men holding guns trained on a pair of other men. Finally everything went still.
Caroline was stepping back gingerly from their own rescuers. She looked around, eyes wide; saw Frank. He came to her side and briefly they clasped hands, squeezed hard. She was white-faced, her gaze fixed on her trussed and prone ex as if on a beast that might still break free and leap at her.
Umberto appeared before them, rotund in his flak jacket. “Into the Watergate,” he said. “We have one of the condos, and they’ve got their generator going.”
NEAR THE END OF THEIR DEBRIEFING, with Cooper and his crew long gone, and Umberto and his people absorbed in the progress of other parts of the root canal, Frank and Caroline realized they were no longer needed. Umberto noticed them standing there and waved them away. The operation was going well, he indicated. There would be no one