The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [175]
105
You didn’t know she was The Fourth?” Boyle asked.
“I said that’s enough!” the guard shouted, gripping his gun with two hands. He had a build—and a face—like a rhino, but as he stepped closer, Rogo saw the guard’s feet shuffle with hesitation. Eight years ago, Ron Boyle was an accountant. Today, he was clearly something more.
“Who’d you think it was? The President?” Boyle added.
“He really ranked me that low?” Dreidel asked.
“Why’d you think you were fired?” Boyle asked.
“I wasn’t fired. I got promoted.”
“Sure you were.”
“I’m counting to three!” the guard warned Boyle.
“Listen, please,” Rogo begged, turning to the guard. “You need to call the police . . . my friend’s about to be killed!”
“You hear me, Boyle?” the guard said.
“Didn’t you realize who you were up against?” Boyle shouted at Rogo. “You should’ve called the cops days ago.”
“We did! We thought we did!” Rogo replied. “Micah and O’Shea said they were—”
One . . . !” the guard shouted.
“Or at least called in some favors,” Boyle added, turning to Dreidel.
Turning away, Dreidel was silent.
Rogo raised an eyebrow.
“Two . . . !” the guard continued.
Boyle watched them both carefully, then rolled his tongue, more annoyed than ever. He’d worked in the White House for nearly four years. He’d seen that look before.
“You did, didn’t you?” Boyle challenged.
“And you did anything different?” Dreidel shot back. “Spare me the judgment.”
“Wait . . . what?” Rogo asked. “You went for help without telling us?”
Before Dreidel could answer, the guard pulled back the hammer on his gun.
Still locked on Dreidel, Boyle ignored the threat. “Who’d you run to first? NSA? FBI? Or’d you go to Bendis at—?”
“The Marshals,” Dreidel blurted. “I went to the Marshals Service.”
Hearing the words, the guard turned toward Dreidel. And took his eyes off Boyle.
That was the end.
Leaping forward, Boyle slammed the guard from behind, wrapping his left arm around the guard’s neck and gripping his stringy brown hair with his right.
“Are you—? Get the hell off!” the guard screamed. He reached back to grab Boyle—which was exactly what Boyle was hoping for.
Seizing the momentum, Boyle threw himself backward, taking the guard with him as they plunged toward the floor. It wasn’t until they were in mid-fall that the guard realized what he was in for.
“Boyle, don’t—!”
Pivoting at the last second, Boyle spun to the left, twisting around so that instead of falling backward, the guard was falling forward. Straight toward the salmon-colored marble floor. At the last second, with a sharp tug of brown hair to steer the ship, Boyle turned the guard’s head to the side, so his right ear was facing down.
“Get off me, you lunati—!”
Like a cupped hand slapping water, the guard’s ear smacked the ground with a loud hollow pop, followed half a second later by a louder pop as his gun backfired from the impact. Boyle, Rogo, and Dreidel all jumped back as the bullet zinged from his gun, piercing the base of the welcome desk and lodging in the marble wall. Before they’d even realized what happened, the guard’s head slumped unconscious against the floor, blood trickling out from his burst eardrum.
“What’re you, on drugs!?” Dreidel demanded as Boyle climbed to his feet.
Without answering, Boyle motioned to the door. “We should go. He’s got backup coming.”
Still in shock, Rogo just stood there, his eyes hopping from Boyle and Dreidel to the limp figures of O’Shea and the guard. “I don’t . . . I’m not—”
“Dreidel, you don’t live down here, do you?” Boyle asked.
“No, but I can—”
“I need you to show me the fastest route to the cemetery,” Boyle said as he turned to Rogo.
Rogo nodded, first slowly, then faster, his eyes eventually settling on Dreidel, who quickly approached to make peace.
“Rogo, before you say anything . . .”
“You made a deal, didn’t you?” Rogo challenged.
“Just listen—”
“What’d the Marshals offer you?”
“Rogo . . .”
“What’d they offer you, you cancerous little parasite!?” Rogo shouted.
Dreidel shook his head