The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [140]
Two blocks away, on a side street, Nikola flicked his pager closed and handed it over to Dennis. “Hold on to it, just in case.” He peered once more at the crisp satellite images on the plasma screens flanking Dennis’s workstation in the van.
Dennis accepted the device, an eyebrow raised.
“I logged your statistics in the pager. You have access.” Then Nikola nodded once and made up his mind. “Retain the satellite link and drive over to the Paige Building’s underground parking lot.”
As Dennis busied himself to move onto the driver’s seat, Nikola reached to a side. Lodged against the van’s bodywork was an old Malacca cane, a walking stick he used at times when strolling through the park. He had too much work to do to waste any more time playing babysitter and worrying about Wilson’s repeat performances.
Ritter knew the layout and security measures of the building intimately. The alarm wouldn’t have gone off. Perhaps bits of glass had rained down below, but it would take time before someone noticed and pinpointed his window. The shooter would be gone, but not the contract. It would mean endless hours or days spent inside a flak jacket, cringing each time he was in the open, until the shooter was caught or his aim improved. He knew who was after his guts, and the building’s security detail was formed entirely of DHS personnel. The men were professionals, and probably clean, but they obeyed orders from the top. And that might include driving him to a point where the killer couldn’t miss his car. He had to get out of the building. Alone.
The fire stairs were out of the question. As soon as he pushed the panic bar, alarms would trigger and pandemonium would follow; security personnel would flock to the exit on the ground floor and shut down the building. He would be trapped. That left the elevator—not much better. There were four security men in the garages and two staffing the room with the recording equipment on the ground floor. He paused to picture the small door opening from the recording room to the rear of the building.
On the ground floor, there would be four armed men: two by the door, one at the desk, and another by the elevator. Regardless of how much weight he tried to pull, they wouldn’t allow him out of the building without a phalanx of bodyguards. He needed to draw all available personnel away from the entrance hall and get into the recording room.
Ritter shut off the tap, reached for a thick roll of paper towels, and dried his hands and face. Then he opened the oven door, shoved the roll inside, and turned the broiler on full before marching toward the door. At the pent house lobby, he reached under a wall shelf with drawers, ripped off the weapon he had taped underneath, and slipped it inside his trouser band. Then Ritter opened the door and sprinted along the corridor for the benefit of the video cameras. His beret must be somewhere in his bedroom with his other weapon, but he wasn’t about to go looking for it.
The landing was predictably deserted, as his apartment was the only one on that level. The four floors below housed as many agency directors and their families, all ensconced in their own private fiefdoms.
The iris scan by the elevator doors took an unreasonable time to lock on, its red beam flickering on and off until Ritter’s eyes were awash in tears. Once inside the car, he swept a glossy black card in a slot to override the machine’s instructions. Instead of the parking lot programmed into the machine, he keyed in the main lobby. He doubted the sniper would have backup but, if he did, the most likely point to watch would be the underground garage and his car.
As the elevator plummeted, Ritter stole a glance at a smoked mirror covering half of the wall facing the sliding door. He choked back a curse. His face and head glistened with innumerable cuts, giving him the vague appearance of raw hamburger. He patted his trouser pocket for a handkerchief and froze when his fingers caught