The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [142]
When he could see a patch of synthetic grass out the open doorway, Ritter straightened and turned to Bob. “Now walk over to the other side and stay there.”
“Take care, boss.”
Ritter pocketed his weapon and gave Bob’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before bolting for the door and sprinting toward New York Avenue, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. Bob wasn’t overly concerned for his safety, but a posting to sunny places was riding on Ritter’s capacity to stay away from a sniper’s sights.
chapter 48
20:54
Instead of waiting for the lights to change, Ritter descended the steps to the underpass, crossed over, and exited at Montana Avenue, taking the steps two at a time rather than the escalator. He glanced around, reached to his neck, and removed the locator. Once on the other side of the six-lane thoroughfare, by now almost empty of traffic, he walked at a brisk pace past Mt. Olivet Cemetery, careful to mingle with a group of young people moving in the same direction toward a theater. At a narrow alley cutting toward Bladensburg Road, he squeezed past people already maneuvering supermarket carts brimming with the detritus of their lives and vying for the best spots to spend the night.
He dropped his locator into one of the carts. Then he spotted a small puddle of water on the upturned lid of a garbage bin. He dipped his handkerchief and ran it several times over his face and head. He was more afraid of alerting a policeman with his bleeding face than of whatever infection he might contract from the water.
He could have gone in the opposite direction, to the Rhode Island Avenue–Brentwood Metro station, and boarded an underground train to get out of the area as quickly as possible, but the system was rife with surveillance cameras, on both the trains and the platforms. If whoever was after him accessed the right feeds, he could be hemmed inside the underground network—not a pleasant proposition. When he was almost at the other end of the alley—the sporadic traffic of Bladensburg Road visible between garbage bins lining the passage—his pager warbled. Ritter stopped and squeezed between two large steel containers brimming with fast-food remains. His lungs filled with the stench of congealed fat.
GET OFF THE STREETS
Ritter swore. Although also unknown, this sender was different from the previous one. Is the NSA giving secure pagers away in cereal boxes? He darted a quick look overhead and clipped the pager back on his trouser waistband. Whoever called the shots was guessing. Good guesses so far, but they couldn’t have tracked him. Then he froze and glanced up to the rectangle of clear sky between the buildings. They could, and they were. Satellite. He retreated further into the gap between the containers until his back rested against the brickwork, and he took a few deep breaths. He could shack up at a hotel, but his ID would flash like a beacon through the system. Within walking distance of his present position, he knew some finer establishments where a few hundred-dollar bills might replace his ID, but it was risky. Friends were a no-no; he couldn’t think of even one unconnected with the administration, at least within Washington, D.C., and the closest family he could think of languished in an Oklahoma dust bowl.
Before leaving Mason Tower, Ritter knew the sniper had to be almost a mile away; there was no clear line of fire anywhere closer. He also guessed the contract on his life had something to do with whatever Genia Warren was attempting to do, and that could only mean Odelle. He reached to pat his shirt pocket and the flimsy piece of paper with Genia’s code. Could they have spotted Genia giving him the paper? Was her office bugged? Ritter shook his head once. Executive offices were swept twice a day. But that didn’t mean much. Security measures were in the hands of DHS personnel. He checked his watch. Thirty minutes since his window exploded and twenty-nine since the sniper realized he’d missed. Now what? The security