The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [55]
Two more shots snarled from the gun, piercing the bottom left and right corners of the glass, exploiting the foundation of the window.
Still on the floor, The Roman pulled off his tie to make a tourniquet for his foot. A tight fist eased the pain in his hand. The blood already filled his shoe, and his heartbeat felt like it was thumping up his arm and down his leg. A few feet away, he heard the thud of a bowling ball, then the crackling of glass. He looked up just in time to see Nico slamming his foot against the bullet hole on the bottom left of the window. True to its name, the glass wouldn’t shatter, but it did give, popping like bubble wrap as the tiny shards fought to stay together in an almost bendable plastic sheet. Now he had an opening. Licking his lips, Nico put his foot against the glass and gripped the radiator for leverage. With another shove, a fist-sized hunk of the sea-green window broke off from the rest. He pushed again. And again. Almost there. There was a tiny tear and a kitten shriek as the window slowly peeled outward and upward like old wallpaper. Then a final thud and— Nothing.
The Roman looked up as a blast of cold air slapped him in the face.
Nico was already gone.
Crawling to the window, The Roman gripped the top of the radiator and pulled himself up. Two stories down, he spotted the small bluff of snow that had broken Nico’s fall. Thinking about giving chase, he took another look at the height and felt the blood seeping through his own sock. Not a chance, he told himself. He could barely stand now.
Craning his neck out the window and following the footprints—out of the bluff, through the slush on the service road—he quickly spotted Nico: his sweatshirt creating a tiny brown spot plowing through the bright white layer of snow. Nico never looked back.
Within seconds, Nico’s faded brown spot gained a speck of black as he raised the gun and pointed it downhill. From the angle of the window, The Roman couldn’t see what Nico was aiming at. There was a guard at the gate, but that was over fifty yards a—
A whispered psst and a hiccup of smoke belched from the gun’s barrel. Right there, Nico slowed his pace to a calm, almost relaxing walk. The Roman didn’t need to see the body to know it was another direct hit.
Shoving the gun into the pouch of his sweatshirt, Nico looked like a man without a care in the world. Just strolling past the old army building, past the graveyards, past the leafless dogwood, and—as he faded from view—straight out the front gate.
Hobbling toward the door, The Roman grabbed the syringe and the razor blade from the floor.
“You guys okay?” a female voice asked through one of the orderlies’ walkie-talkies.
The Roman leaned down and pulled it off the orderly’s belt clip. “Just fine,” he mumbled into the receiver.
Carrying it with him, he turned around and took a final survey of the room. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized Nico had also taken the black-and-white photograph of Wes. Bleeding Wes.
28
Right this way,” I say as I cup the elbow of the older woman with the beehive of blond hair and escort her and her husband toward President Manning and the First Lady, who’re posed in front of a floral bouquet the size of a small car. Trapped in this small anteroom in the back of the Kravis Center for the Performing Arts, the President looks my way, never losing his grin. It’s all the signal I need. He has no idea who they are.
I put it on a platter. “Mr. President, you remember the Talbots—”
“George . . . Leonor . . .” the First Lady jumps in, shaking hands and swapping air kisses. Thirty-four books, five unauthorized biographies, and two TV movies have argued she’s the better politician in the family. All the proof is right here. “And how’s Lauren?” she asks, pulling off their