Clark sent another round toward Rattail to keep him honest, took a step, stumbled, and then regained his footing. He was in the open now. Geezer must have seen the wound and decided to press his attack, coming around the cabana, blazing away with his pistol. Clark shot him twice, in the shoulder and the neck, reloading a fresh mag as he spun immediately back to Rattail, hobble-walking toward the cover of a deck pillar as he kept the other man’s head down with spaced shots from the Wilson. He wanted Lily Chen, but Rattail put his body in front of hers, gallantly, and stupidly, absorbing two rounds from Clark’s .45. The man was tough and kept shooting long enough for Chen to shove Magdalena into the water—along with the metal deck chair that was chained to her ankle.
The child sank like a rock, dragged to the bottom by the heavy chair, obviously chosen for that purpose. Clark shot as he moved, emptying the .45 but hitting Chen at least once in the belly and knocking her to her knees as she attempted to drag the other girl into the water.
Clark dove headfirst, eyes fixed on the struggling girl at the bottom of the pool. The shot probably wouldn’t kill Chen—not quickly enough, anyway. She’d surely crawl to Rattail’s gun and shoot Clark while he swam down to Magdalena. But he didn’t care anymore. If he did nothing, the girl would die. If Lily Chen got a gun, the girl would die. This way, at least, she wouldn’t die alone.
Clark made it to the bottom of the pool with two powerful kicks. Magdalena Rojas reached for him, eyes wide, waving her arms, still struggling to pull the chair to the surface. Clark drew her close and gave her a quick rescue breath, suddenly finding his own limbs incredibly heavy. It was impossible to lift the deck chair, let alone swim to the surface with it. He considered dragging it up to the shallow end, but even that seemed a herculean task. Clark checked the leash connecting the chair to Magdalena, and found it to be a chain, not too big, but big enough he couldn’t break it by pulling. A small padlock held it in place. Hopeless . . .
There was a splash behind him and he turned to find a new face, a female face, surrounded with billowing red hair, swimming toward him. Then Caruso was there, too, and Clark thought he must be dead. But if that was true, then Caruso and the redheaded FBI agent were dead as well. Then he remembered the bullet wound in his calf.
Being dead hurt like hell.
? ? ?
Dominic Caruso dragged Clark to the shallow end of the pool. Callahan and Olson brought up the Hispanic girl and her deck chair while two other agents saw to a wounded Lily Chen, who now lay on the pool deck, screeching as though her guts were being torn out. One could dream, Caruso thought.
Callahan helped Olson push Magdalena up on the pool deck to Trooper Sergeant Bourke and then waded into the shallows to stand beside Caruso. Water pressed the silk blouse against her skin.
Clark coughed, blinking up at Caruso, then worked his jaw back and forth.
“Shit,” he said. “Guess I’m not dead.”
“Nope,” Caruso said.
“But you are under arrest,” Callahan said.
Caruso frowned. “Now, hang on. This was all in self-defense and you know it.”
“Self-defense my ass,” Callahan scoffed. She wiped the water off her face and sniffed, looking down at Clark. “I’m happy you saved these girls. Don’t get me wrong. But you can’t just go all John Wick and then expect to walk away.”
“Do what you have to do,” Clark said. “I don’t blame you.”
“That’s special,” Callahan said. “So you agree to being arrested. That’s big of you, considering the pile of dead bodies left in your wake.” As she spoke, she helped pull Clark out of the pool and rolled up his pant leg to check the wound in his calf. There were other scars there. A lot of them, as well as a bunch on his neck. This dude had been around the block.
“I’m not admitting to anything,” Clark said, coughing again. “But there may or may not be another one under the dock.”
“Marvelous,” Callahan said. She nodded to the bullet hole. “Looks like a through-and-through, but it might have nicked the bone. You may have to walk with a cane.”
“That’s probably not going to happen,” Clark groused. He glanced up at Caruso, eyes narrow. “How’d you find me?”
“Not entirely sure,” Dom said, looking sideways at Callahan. “I think somebody might have screwed with my phone.”
Clark groaned. “I’m lucky she’s better at investigating than you are at operational security. Anyway, Lily Chen will have a cell phone somewhere. And on that phone will be a number for her brother, Vincent. Our people need that number yesterday. Understand?”
Dom nodded. “Copy that.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Callahan said. “No one messes with that phone before my tech guys get a look at it.”
Caruso gave her a passive look. “Afraid I’m going to have to pull rank on you there,” he said. “I’ll give it right back, though.”
Callahan waved him away. “Whatever.” She glared down at Clark. “Who are you?”
“John,” he said.
“John . . . ?”
“John,” he said again, as he winced at the pain in his leg. “. . . better go with Doe.”
54
The phone beside President Jack Ryan’s bed rang once, dragging him out of some dream that he could not remember. He rolled over, coughed to clear his throat, and squinted at the blurry numbers on the clock as he picked up the handset. He’d gone to bed early in anticipation of an early ride to Andrews and a seven a.m. wheels-up for Tokyo. Surely it couldn’t be that time already. Nowhere near it.
One forty-five a.m.
It was an accepted—and probably true—notion among White House staff that one could not get fired for waking the President. One could only get fired for not waking the President. Most would have erred on the side of caution, but Arnie van Damm had a pretty good handle on when events were important enough to rouse Ryan from his “much-needed beauty sleep.” Van Damm had witnessed so many national crises that he remained absolutely unflappable while so many others ran around with their hair on fire. Van Damm joked that he had no hair, so . . .
“Mr. President,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“Good morning, Arnie.” Ryan stretched, fought the urge to say something flippant. No one called to joke at this ungodly hour.
“Sorry to wake you,” the chief of staff said. It was van Damm’s custom to engage in a few seconds of small talk before he got to the meat of the matter, to make certain his boss was thinking with some relative coherence.
“That’s fine,” Ryan said, coughing again and rolling onto his back. Out of habit, he reached out to the other side of the bed to see if the call had woken Cathy, but she was still in Nepal. “What’s up?”
“Typhoon Catelyn,” van Damm said. “There are some developments you’ll want to know about.”
“Who else is here?”
“Commander Forrestal and I,” van Damm said. “We have an Air Force weather guesser on his way over from the Pentagon.”
“Okay,” Ryan said. He was fully awake now. “Notify the Secret Service that I’ll be heading to the Oval in”—he put on his glasses and checked the clock again—“ten minutes.”
“Already done,” van Damm said. “I’m standing outside your door, speaking with the agent now.”
“That’s just creepy, Arnie,” Ryan said.
“I do my best, Mr. President.”
? ? ?
Posted outside the President’s bedroom door in the central hallway, Special Agent Tina Jordan lifted the small beige microphone on her surveillance kit to her lips. She hit the push-to-talk button to call the command post—and other Secret Service personnel on the White House campus.
“CROWN, CROWN, from Jordan,” she whispered. “SWORDSMAN is on the move in ten, en route to the Oval Office.”