He pictured the faceless Dancer moving up behind Percey Clay with a knife or garrote.
In as calm a voice as he could muster he ordered the cursor to the set-frequency box.
It seated itself perfectly.
"Four," Rhyme said, pronouncing the word so very carefully.
A 4 popped up into the box. Then he said, "Eight."
The letter A appeared in the second box.
Lord in heaven!
"Delete left."
I did not understand . . .
No, no!
He thought he heard footsteps. "Hello?" he cried. "Is someone there? Thom? Mel?"
No answer except from his friend the computer, which placidly offered its contrarian response once again.
"Eight," he said slowly.
The number appeared. His next attempt, "Three," popped into the box without a problem.
"Point."
&n
bsp; The word point appeared.
Goddamn!
"Delete left." Then, "Decimal."
The period popped up.
"Four."
One space left. Remember, It's zero not oh. Sweat streaming down his face, he added the final number of the Secure Ops frequency without a glitch.
The radio clicked on.
Yes!
But before he could transmit, static clattered harshly and, with a frozen heart, he heard a man's frantic voice crying, "Ten-thirteen, need assistance, federal protection location six."
The safe house.
He recognized the voice as Roland Bell's. "Two down and . . . Oh, Jesus, he's still here. He's got us, he's hit us! We need--"
There were two gunshots. Then another. A dozen. A huge firefight. It sounded like Macy's fireworks on the Fourth of July.
"We need--"
The transmission ended.