The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

Tony down in the pantry.

And of course he knew.

His eyes roved the room to search out the president and vice president. Mike saw him, her eyes fixed on his face. Then she looked over her shoulder as if Damari would be right there.

Which he was, across the room, laughing with the president and vice president, hovering at her right hand where he always was. And that was surely impossible, since Tony was bleeding in the pantry.

Nicholas started toward them, dodging people who were trying to intercept him then moving out of his way, still speaking to him, but he was focused, moving as quickly as he could.

He never took his eyes off Zahir Damari, a part of him amazed at the transformation, a part of him counting the seconds, praying Damari wouldn’t pull a gun or a knife, and it would be all over. No, no gun or knife, he’d never get out alive. Then what?

He was still ten feet away when he saw Tony—Damari—coming up on the far side of the president. It took a moment for his mind to register—the champagne. He’d handed them glasses of champagne for a toast, and the president was raising his glass, clicking it against Callan’s and the two of them lifted their glasses to their lips.

Nicholas shouted, “Don’t, don’t!” but someone had turned up the music and it drowned out his words, or maybe it didn’t, but they didn’t register, or they didn’t hear enough to understand.

Nicholas was shoving people out of the way, screaming now, “Don’t drink the champagne!” People were grabbing at him, asking him what was wrong, becoming alarmed. No one knew what was happening, but they kept getting in his way. He saw the Secret Service agents had heard him yelling, and were looking through the windows at him, and then they were inside, now charging across the room toward him, as if he were the threat.

“Don’t drink it, don’t drink it, it’s Damari!”

Callan heard him, finally, and she looked up, saw him racing toward her, yelling, and her glass was halfway to her mouth, her head cocked to one side, puzzled, but the president, the president.

“Stop him, stop him!” It was one of the Secret Service and he grabbed at Nicholas. Still five feet away, Nicholas dove in the air like he was after a football, eyes focused only on the glasses. His arm swept across their bodies, slapping the glass right out of Callan’s hand. He caught the bottom edge of the president’s glass, but he’d already tipped his head back before Nicholas had begun his charge across the room; the champagne was in his mouth.

“Don’t swallow!” he shouted, then crashed hard against the fireplace beside the president. Glass shattered, people started to scream. The president grabbed at his throat, fell to his knees. The Secret Service were on Nicholas, pinning him to the floor, and the soldiers flooded the room.

No more than five seconds had passed.

Nicholas struggled to get to his feet, pulling two Secret Service agents with him, a small cut on the forehead trickling blood into his left eye. He pointed, shouted to Mike, “It’s Damari, it’s Damari, he’s made up to look like Tony Scarlatti, he poisoned the champagne!”

There was a long moment, the space between a heartbeat, when Damari turned and made eye contact with Nicholas. His face looked so much like Tony it was eerie, but his hairpiece had been knocked askew.

In that second, Mike understood, pulled her Glock out of her boot holster, and yelled, “Stop!”

But Damari ignored her, moving fast toward the glass door to the back terrace. His hand was outstretched to grab the door handle when Mike pulled the trigger three times without hesitation, and he was slammed against the glass, his head cracking it, smearing it with his blood as he collapsed.

81

KING TO C1

The security team circled Mike in a heartbeat, and she stood there, not moving, seeing the lights, hearing shouts and screams coming from all corners of the room. And over the chaos, she heard the rotors of a helicopter drawing closer.

Mike held out her ankle gun, butt first, her arm outstretched, then she tossed it to the floor and put her hands on the top of her head. She dropped to her knees, knowing if she didn’t the guards and agents would throw her down.

She heard Nicholas shouting, but couldn’t understand his words over the yells and commands from the security team. Then she heard him. “It’s Damari. She shot Damari, Tony is in the pantry, he’s been stabbed. We need medics, we need medics, the president is down!”

Secret Service was already swarmed around the president; Nicholas was being held to the side, struggling against the agents holding him back from Mike.

One agent wrenched Mike’s shooting arm behind her back. “Stay on your knees, don’t you move, keep your hands on your head!” She didn’t resist, it would be suicide to do anything other than what they were telling her right now. She felt the cold steel of an agent’s weapon pressing into the base of her neck, heard a woman’s voice, clear and strong. “The president’s down. Where is the medic?”

The vice president? Yes, Callan was okay.

A young naval officer with a huge medical kit in a red bag burst into the living room, yelling, “Here, ma’am! What happened? Was the president shot?”

“He’s been poisoned. It was in the champagne. It smelled somehow off to me, I hadn’t had any yet but he got some in his mouth before Agent Drummond knocked it from our hands. It was a fast one, given the speed at which the president had grabbed his throat and fell to the floor.”

Mike stayed on her knees, her heart pounding, and she prayed the president would be all right. She looked over to the blood-smeared glass door, at Damari’s body in the fetal position against the door. So much blood. He was dead. She’d shot him. It was ov

er, but strangely, she couldn’t get her brain around it, couldn’t accept it yet. A measure of shock, she supposed, and knew it would pass.