Dead Silence Read Free Page B

floors. And possibly more than one shooter, if it was a bag-and-tag operation.
    Tag, as in coroner’s tag.
    So there were at least four men, but maybe eight, presumably all armed.
    On the bottom floor of the Explorers Club, near the stairs, is a world globe, museum-sized. On a nearby wall, I’d noticed a climbing ax from some Himalayan expedition. An ice ax, spiked at one end, a blade on the other.
    I yelled to the desk attendant, “Where’s Sir James?,” as I pulled the ax from its mount, stumbled and nearly fell over the globe.
    The attendant stared at me like I was insane. She pointed toward the rest-room, her lips moving to tell me, “Sir James is . . . unavailable.”
    I told the woman to call 911. A United States senator was being abducted.

2
    A s I exited the Explorers Club, the kid Barbara had met at the airport was stepping out of the limo, a cowboy hat pulled low, boots ankle-deep in slush.
    The essay winner? It was a boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He looked like a bull rider, all shoulders and legs.
    I yelled, “Kid! Get back in the car!”
    The kid looked at me, his expression surly. “Huh?” Maybe he was masking confusion.
    I hollered, “Back in the car— now !,” aware that the man with the pointed cap was watching the boy, maybe thinking about grabbing him.
    The teen yelled to me, “ Kid? . . . A goat ever kicked your ass, mister?,” as I turned toward taxi A, parked in front of the limo.
    An unusual vocabulary for a high school scholar.
    The taxi’s rear door was open, exhaust condensing in the cold. Hands from inside pulled at Barbara’s coat while the guy in coveralls wrestled her legs into the car.
    Barbara was getting in some shots, panty hose showing, as she hammered with her feet. But she was losing.
    I could have thrown the ax but risked hitting her. Instead, I yelled, “Stop—I’ll shoot!,” imitating a television cop. Disciplined, but eager to squeeze the trigger.
    It earned me a couple of seconds. The guy in coveralls straightened. His head pivoted. I saw a choirboy face, Mediterranean, maybe Spanish, which could mean anywhere. His dark eyes met mine as I raised the ax, running hard.
    I don’t care who you are, an ax is unnerving.
    I saw his eyes widen, and gained another second, ten yards separating us now. Close enough to lower a shoulder and use my momentum to hit him so hard we’d spring the door off its hinges.
    Instead, I changed my mind at the last second—always a mistake. Ask any football coach. Decided I could use the ice ax to scare all three men, so why disable just one?
    Sensible. But when I tried to stop, I hit a patch of ice and my feet went flying. I landed hard on my back, momentum unchecked, and ass-sledded into a tangle of legs, then under the taxi, Choirboy atop me, Senator Hayes-Sorrento in the slush nearby.
    Barbara called , “Ford?,” as if reluctant to believe I was her bungling rescuer.
    “Run! Get out of the street!” I was worried about a shooter, high above, watching through a rifle scope.
    Several things then happened at once: The taxi driver panicked, and hit the gas. The spinning tires somehow kicked Choirboy free. The vehicle began a slow-motion doughnut that would have crushed my head if the ax hadn’t snagged the doorframe.
    I grabbed the handle with both hands and levered my body away from the tires. I was half under the car, rotating with it. Let go, I’d be run over.
    The car straightened, then slowly gained speed in the fresh snow, dragging me down the street.
    I got my right hand higher on the ax handle. I lifted my butt off the pavement to reduce drag. Using the ax as a fulcrum, I was powering my legs from beneath the chassis when the guy in the backseat started kicking at the ax.
    Because I had no other option, I made a wild lunge for the door. I got lucky. I caught the man’s ankle—but only for a moment before he yanked his foot free.
    The additional lift was enough. I swung clear, expecting the bumper to clip