“If you say so,” Wright said, and shuffled toward the door. He seemed finally frightened enough to move.
Then Cuthbert heard that soft sound again, and the wood groaned. The thing was pressing against the door. There was another horrible cra-ack and the door split wide open, a piece of wood spinning crazily end over end into the room. The table was thrown to one side. Something appeared in the gloom of the hallway, and a three-tined claw reached through the opening and gripped the broken wood. With a tearing noise the remainder of the door was pulled back into the darkness, and Cuthbert saw a dark shape in the doorway.
Wright lurched into the Dinosaur Hall, almost toppling Rickman, who had appeared in the doorway, choking and sobbing.
“Shoot it, Ian, oh please, please kill it!” she screamed.
Cuthbert waited, sighting down the barrel. He held his breath. Four shots.
ˉ
The commander of the SWAT team moved along the roof, a catlike shape against the dark indigo of the sky, while the spotter on the street below guided his progress. Coffey stood next to the spotter, under a tarp. They both held rubberized waterproof radios.
“Dugout to Red One, move five more feet to the east,” the spotter said into his radio, peering upward through his night-vision passive telescope. “You’re almost there.” He was studying Museum blueprints spread out on a table under a sheet of Plexiglas. The SWAT team’s route had been marked in red.
The dark figure moved carefully across the slate roof, the lights of the Upper West Side twinkling around him; below, the Hudson River, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles on Museum Drive, the high-rise apartment buildings laid out along Riverside Drive like rows of glowing crystals.
“That’s it,” the spotter said. “You’re there, Red One.”
Coffey could see the Commander kneel, working swiftly and silently to set the charges. His team waited a hundred yards back, the medics directly behind them. On the street, a siren wailed.
“Set,” said the Commander. He stood up and walked carefully backward, unrolling a wire.
“Blow when ready,” murmured Coffey.
Coffey watched as everyone on the roof lay down. There was a brief flash of light, and a second later the sharp slap of sound reached Coffey. The Commander waited a moment and then eased forward.
“Red One to Dugout, we’ve got an opening.”
“Proceed,” said Coffey.
The SWAT team dropped in through the hole in the roof, followed by the medics.
“We’re inside,” came the voice of the Commander. “We’re in the fifth-floor corridor, proceeding as advised.”
Coffey waited impatiently. He looked at his watch: nine-fifteen. They’d been stuck in there, without power, for the longest ninety minutes of his life. An unwelcome vision of the Mayor, dead and gutted, kept plaguing him.
“We’re at the Cell Three emergency door, fifth floor, Section Fourteen. Ready to set charges.”
“Proceed,” said Coffey.
“Setting charges.”
D’Agosta and his group hadn’t reported in for over half an hour. God, if something happened to the Mayor, no one would care whose fault it really was. Coffey would be the one that caught the blame. That’s the way things worked in this town. It had taken him so long to get where he was, and he’d been so careful, and now the bastards were just going to take it away from him. It was all Pendergast’s fault. If he hadn’t started messing around on other people’s turf ...
“Charges set.”
“Blow when ready,” Coffey said again. Pendergast had fucked up, not him. He himself had only taken over yesterday. Maybe they wouldn’t blame him, after all. Especially if Pendergast wasn’t around. That son of a bitch could talk the hind legs off a mule.
There was a long silence. No sound of explosion reached Coffey’s ears as he waited outside beneath the sodden tarp.
“Red One to Dugout, we’re clean,” the Commander said.
“Proceed. Get inside and kill the son of a bitch,” said Coffey.
“As discussed, sir, our first priority is to evac the wounded,” said the Commander in a flat voice.
“I know! But hurry it up, for God’s sake!”
He punched savagely at his transmit button.
The Commander stepped out of the stairwell, looking carefully around before motioning the teams to follow him. One by one, the dark figures emerged, gas masks pushed high on their foreheads, fatigue uniforms blending into the shadows, their M-16s and Bullpups equipped with full-tang bayonets. In the rear, a short, stubby officer was carrying a 40mm six-shot grenade launcher, a big-bellied weapon that looked like a pregnant tommy gun. “We’ve gained the fourth floor,” the Commander radioed the spotter. “Laying down an infrared beacon. Hall of Lesser Apes directly ahead.”