Crouching, Coldmoon waited for the klieg lights to circle around on their route—and then he sprinted for the archway leading into the building.

60

HER MIND SWAM back into consciousness and for a moment she braced herself instinctively, assuming the worst, hand tightening around a stiletto that wasn’t there. Then everything came flooding back: the roaring noise, being picked up and tumbled about like a rag doll…and then blackness.

All was eerily quiet except for a steady falling rain. Constance raised her head, annoyed to find she was almost completely covered in mud for a second time that evening, but the warm rain was already washing it off. She lay on the river embankment, giving herself a minute to recover. The docks and outbuildings had been torn to pieces, an unrecognizable shambles of splintered piers and roofless structures. Their boat lay overturned where the waterspout had thrown it, about a hundred yards downstream, half on the embankment and half in the water, its hull split.

But where was Perelman?

She struggled to sit up, body aching. It was so dark she could barely make out anything on the ground beyond the nearby gleam of her stiletto.

“Chief Perelman?” she called in a weak voice, and then louder: “Perelman?”

“Over here.”

The strained reply came from the blackness about twenty feet from her. She gingerly rose to her feet, wincing.

“Are you okay?” Perelman asked.

“I believe so. But are you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She carefully felt her way toward his voice. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated him, sprawled on the muddy embankment. One leg was twisted beneath him in an ugly, unnatural way.

She knelt by his side. “Your leg?”

“Broken, as you can see. Can you…help me out of this mud?”

“Yes.” Constance put her arms under his and pulled him up the embankment and to a grassy area within a grove of trees.

“My poor boat,” he said.

Constance laid a hand on his forehead. It was clammy. He would be going into shock.

“Get my cell phone out of my pocket,” he said. “I’ve got to make a call.”

She reached in and took it out of his slicker pocket. It was smashed to pieces and dripping water. He fished a flashlight out of his other pocket and turned it on.

“Oh shit. What about your phone?”

“Gone.”

“Looks like we’re out of commission.”

“You’re out of commission,” said Constance. “I’m still in commission.”

“You?” He groaned. “What are you going to do now?”

Once again, in a swift movement Constance unsnapped his gun from the holster and slipped it out.

“What the hell do you plan to do with that?”

“It’s going to prove more useful than a stiletto.”

“You can’t go in there alone. It’s suicide. We need to get out of here and call in a massive raid. Which is what we should have done in the first place.”

Constance tucked the gun into her waistband, saying nothing.

“Constance, please listen to me. There’s no way you can do this without getting killed. You’ve got to get help. Call Pendergast’s boss at the FBI, what’s his name, Pickett.”

Constance tightened his slicker around him, making the chief as comfortable as possible. Then she stood up and stared at the lights of the facility rising above the trees. “We’ve been over this before, and there’s no more time. Pendergast is in that compound. If you call in a raid, they’ll kill him. I’m going in alone.”

“No.” A pause of disbelief. “No, no, that’s totally insane.”

“I’m sorry to leave you. I expect you’ll survive.”

“Constance, I beg you for your own sake not to go in there.”

Without giving any indication she’d heard him, she turned and slipped into the trees, heading for the complex. Perelman’s protests were quickly lost in the sound of wind and rain.

61

WEARING THE RAIN slicker and hat of the guard he had killed—the coat unpleasantly sticky inside with blood, the outside washed clean by rain—Coldmoon observed the archway leading to the interior courtyard. The second checkpoint was manned by multiple guards and bristling with cameras. There was no way he could get through that.

There were other doors in the building’s long façade. He crossed an open area, walking calmly and deliberately, hoping that from a distance he looked unremarkable. He arrived at a walkway along the perimeter of the building. The doors in the façade were locked, with no handles on the outside, but as he reconnoitered, he saw a guard exit one of the doors near the far end of the building, then turn and walk away, his back to Coldmoon. He headed in that direction and paused in an area of darkness just short of the door, wondering if anyone else would come out. The lights from the tower roamed over the outer area and the wall but didn’t seem to stray along the façade itself.

He waited. He hoped to God that where one person came out, a second person might as well. He waited and waited and then—in a paroxysm of frustration—decided this was a waste of time. He needed another plan to get in.

At the corner of the building stood a heavy copper drainpipe, carrying rainwater from the roof and directing it away from the building into a concrete drainage ditch. He examined the pipe closely. Every four feet, heavy brackets held it in place against the cinder-block wall; he could use those brackets as hand- and footholds for climbing. There was a narrow ledge along the second floor he could get onto from the pipe—and the windows on the second floor were unbarred.

However, he would be totally exposed while climbing, a dark figure moving against the beige façade. At least he’d be partially cloaked by the gusting rain.

The odds weren’t great, but he figured he was unlikely to get any better ones.

He walked along the building façade until he reached the bottom of the pipe. Glancing around, he saw people at the main gate, a few guards walking here and there, and—goddamn it—the tower with its roaming spotlights. But everyone seemed hunched against the rain, hurrying along. His chances were not bad…as long as nobody went out to relieve the guard whose throat he’d cut.

He grasped the pipe and swung up, finding a foothold on the bottom bracket and grabbing the one above. The rain made the metal slippery. As he climbed, he could hear the water thrumming through the pipe. Reaching up to the next bracket, he hoisted himself up, then up again. One slip sent his heart rate soaring, but he dangled for only a moment by his hands before he was able to find fresh purchase for his feet. In a few minutes he had reached the ledge. Leaving the pipe, he crept along it toward the first window. Thank God, fear of heights was one phobia he didn’t have. But now he was absurdly exposed—anyone even glancing up in his direction would see him. And yet, nobody glanced; they just hustled along, heads down against the rain.

He crept to the window and peered inside. Beyond was a bleak corridor, brightly lit—and empty. It was an old casement window, with the latch inside.

Using the butt of his Browning, he broke the window as quietly as he could, knocked away the shards of glass, reached inside, and lifted the lever to unlatch the window. He wrestled it open and forced his body through the narrow opening. Once inside, he quickly shut the window.