shoes creaked. Whoever it was stopped, waiting. Then, maybe even slower than before, the person stepped toward Romo. Paul heard the person’s clothes swish. They must be wearing hospital scrubs.
Paul decided being quiet was stupid. If this were Valdez’s assassin, the man would be ready and tense. Would he have a knife, a gun, a rope—Paul had no idea.
From on the sofa, Paul Kavanagh shouted. Then he rolled and hit the floor.
The distinctive sound of a suppressed bullet preceded that of a slug tearing into cushions. Paul didn’t hesitate, even though he flinched. He crawled on his hands and knees, rushing the assassin.
Two more suppressed shots sounded. One hit the sofa, while another struck the tiled floor beside Paul. Bits of debris stung him.
Paul lunged, straining to reach the assassin before he turned the gun on Romo. His shoulder crashed against metal.
Romo stopped snoring. The assassin cursed softly in Spanish.
Then Paul Kavanagh reached the assassin’s legs. Paul wrapped his arms around the man’s ankles and surged forward. Now the assassin shouted, while two more suppressed shots sounded. One bullet grazed Kavanagh’s back, then the assassin struck the floor. Paul crawled up, reaching forward with a hand. His left touched metal. He wrapped his fingers around a gun barrel and twisted it to the side. Three suppressed shots phutted, two of them ricocheting.
“Paul?” Romo asked from above him.
One of the assassin’s knees slammed upward—the man lay on his back, with Paul crawling over him. The knee caught Paul in the gut. Kavanagh’s responses became instinctive then—this was a fight to the death. He was hardly aware of the knife in his hand, that he’d pulled it out of its belt sheath. He twisted the muzzle away from him and thrust the blade forward. The tip hit resistance.
Paul shouted, driving the blade deeper. He felt the edge grind against bone. Twisting savagely, he heard a gurgle in the darkness. The man he struggled with began to thrash wildly as blood jetted onto Kavanagh.
The door opened again. Someone must have heard the commotion. The lights came on and a nurse screamed. She kept on screaming as Paul scrambled off the dying assassin.
His blade was sheathed in flesh. It had sunk under the man’s jaw and gone straight up, likely hitting the brainpan from underneath. It was a gruesome sight. So was Paul with the assassin’s blood dripping from him.
“Santiago?” Romo said. He peered down at the floor from his hospital bed.
“You know him?” Paul asked.
Romo switched his gaze, looking up at Paul. “Si, it is my friend, Santiago. He is the one who called to warn me. We used to…”
“He’s one of Valdez’s assassins?”
Romo nodded.
Two other nurses had entered. They each held the screamer, trying to calm her. With wide eyes, they looked at Paul.
“We’re moving the patient,” Paul told them. “That man tried to murder him and I just saved his life.” Paul pointed his thumb at Romo.
“It is true,” Romo said.
The way the nurses looked at them, none seemed to believe either man, but it didn’t seem as if they wanted to argue either.
OTTAWA, CANADA
Anna knew she was the wrong person for this. She couldn’t cow foreign dignitaries and certainly not their only ally, Prime Minister Roland of Canada. Nor did she feel herself as overly persuasive. So why had David insisted she be the one to go?
Prime Minster Roland of Canada massaged his forehead, with his elbows on his maple-wood desk. His hair receded, the dome of skull shiny up there, and he wore a black suit with a plaid bowtie. The man had worried eyes like the harried bureaucrat he was. His Liberal Party barely had enough seats in Parliament to give him his office. Maybe he felt this request would destroy his party’s hold on power.
It was snowing outside with thick, heavy flakes. In here, the heaters blew hot air. The chamber was rather small, made even cozier by the dark wood paneling and the rows upon rows of old books. The place had a musty odor, like Harvard’s oldest library used to have. Anna recalled the smell fondly, as she’d done much of her research there for her national bestseller, Socialist-Nationalist China. She’d learned that the Prime Minister was once a university professor. Maybe that’s why David had chosen her for the task, but she doubted that was the main reason.
“Ms. Chen,” PM Roland said, looking up as he continued to massage his forehead with his long fingers. He wore a fraternity skull and crossed bones ring,