At the far end of the chamber, on the raised dais, a crowd had gathered around the chair at the center of the table.
“She’s dead,” I heard a voice say. “Elizabeth Connor is dead.”
Instantly, I searched for an anomaly. Most staff and guests were streaming out of the bar through the main exit or the kitchen, where we were, but there was one waiter on the other side of the room who only started to move when he heard that pronouncement. His face was unfamiliar, unnatural and distorted by a prosthetic mask, and when he caught sight of me, I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes.
It was the man who’d killed Karl Parker.
I started running, and an instant later so did he.
CHAPTER 32
I RAN ACROSS the room as the assassin made it to a fire door. He glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of me through the crush of people. I held his gaze for a moment before he sprinted into the corridor and the fire door slammed shut. I fought my way through the noisy crowd and followed.
The corridor was capped by another fire door and when I stepped beyond it I could hear street noise and saw a fire exit, which was wide open. The assassin had fled the building. I sprinted toward the sound of an engine rumbling in the snow-filled alley. I cast around for a weapon and spotted a CO2 fire extinguisher near the door. I grabbed it as I raced outside.
I burst into an alleyway and was immediately confronted by a Dodge Challenger racing toward me. The assassin was in the passenger seat. He was being driven by a man whose face was covered by a skull mask.
The car’s engine roared and its wheels spun on ice as it surged forward. I hurled the heavy extinguisher at the windshield and leaped back through the fire exit as the metal canister smashed the glass. The car collided with the fire door, clipped the hotel wall and veered across the alleyway before striking the adjacent building and coming to an abrupt stop.
I ran through ice and slush and crossed the freezing alleyway. The driver was trying to get out, but I grabbed the fire extinguisher that had fallen beside the car and shoved the nozzle through the open door and pulled the trigger. The car, already white with airbags and silicon dust, filled with gas and foam.
The sound of a gunshot rattled off the walls and a bullet shattered the driver’s window. A voice yelled in what sounded like Russian.
As I jumped back, the door swung open and the masked driver leaped out, gun in hand. He pointed the pistol at me, but I moved in and knocked the weapon away. The gun hit the ground and skidded across the alley, disappear
ing into a deep drift.
Another gunshot from the assassin’s pistol sent me dodging back. The driver rushed forward and tackled me hard. We barreled back out of control and I lost my footing when the two of us tumbled through the open fire exit into the corridor beyond. We hit the deck hard.
Outside, I saw the assassin slide into the driver’s seat, but there was nothing I could do about him. The masked driver was on me and it took all my energy to block his ferocious blows.
I heard the engine roar and glanced beyond my formidable opponent to see the Dodge speed along the alleyway, heading for Beekman Street.
CHAPTER 33
I KNEED THE driver in the gut and he tumbled forward and rolled off me. I snapped to my feet and aimed a punch at his head, but he turned and I caught his shoulder. He fell backwards and I ran into the alleyway to see the Dodge’s burning taillights arc round the corner and vanish north on Beekman Street. I had no hope of catching the assassin, but the getaway driver was still within my reach.
I ran into the building to find him on his feet, sprinting along the corridor. He burst through the fire door leading inside and bounded up the stairs. I raced after him and shoved the fire door so hard the sound of it crashing into the wall startled the man. He glanced down at me from one flight up, and redoubled his efforts. I bounded up the steps two at a time, and pushed myself off the wall when I came to the first landing. The driver was a little over a flight above me, and I could hear his labored breaths between his pounding steps. He was getting tired and I was gaining on him.
We ran on, climbing the stairs at a punishing pace. My legs burned and my lungs screamed at me to stop, but there was no way I was giving in. This man was a living connection to the assassin who’d murdered my friend. I pushed myself on and finally closed the gap when we reached the landing between the seventh and eighth floors.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw me coming and tried to lash out with a kick, but mistimed it, so I sidestepped his attempt and surged forward, grabbed him around his midriff and put my bodyweight against it. He toppled over and hit the deck and we got right to it.
I drove a fist into his face as he tried to get up, and he went down again, but he wasn’t out. He sprang to his feet and caught me with a knee to the ribs that knocked the wind from my chest. I stepped back and he scrambled up the steps. This was no street brawler. Some of his moves were Krav Maga; others were aikido. Not the repertoire of a political activist.
I raced on, following him up the stairs, and when he reached the eighth floor he yanked the fire door open and sprinted into the carpeted corridor beyond. I chased him through one of the hotel’s executive floors and he tried to block the corridor by pulling over marble-topped tables and pot plants. I jumped the obstacles and followed him into a stairwell on the other side of the building. As I bounced off the bannister, I heard a voice yell, “Jack!”
I glanced over the rail and saw Justine a long way down.
I sprinted on. We were near the roof now, and I heard the metallic rattle and clang of the stairwell door opening. I ran up the last flight and burst through the metal fire door onto a wide, flat roof.
A blinding flash and an explosive ringing in my ears told me I’d been hit, even before the pain started, and as I staggered forward, I turned to see the driver wielding a chair, taken from a stack behind the stairwell. He swung again, but I jumped out of range. I slipped on a layer of ice that lay beneath the soft powder covering the rooftop, and my sudden stumble saved me from another blow. As the chair whipped over my head, I powered forward and tackled my assailant. He fell backwards and dropped the chair as he hit the deck. I punched him in the ribs and the second time I did it, I felt something crack, and he yelped in pain.
I swung again, but he kicked me, catching me in the chest. I staggered back and he got to his feet. I grabbed the chair and drove its legs forward. One of them struck him in the face like a pool cue and his nose gushed blood. He pulled his mask off and I saw the mess he was in. His face was bloodied and he’d lost a number of teeth. His eyes were rolling and he was having trouble focusing.
“It’s over,” I said.
He wiped his bloodied face with his hand and I noticed the scar of an old bullet wound on his cheek. This was a man who’d survived being shot in the face.