The Athena Factor Read Free Page B

couldn’t see. The man jerked a short but polite nod, the sort staff were supposed to give guests, and said, “Good day.”
    Lymon was stepping past him when their eyes met. It was something feral, excited—something that shouldn’t have been in a hotel guy’s eyes.
    Lymon was moving to block him when the guy lunged at Sheela.
    Lymon’s arm caught the guy’s chest, spinning him slightly off balance. He could feel the muscle, the athletic charge in the man’s tensed body. One of the assailant’s arms flashed up, the elbow catching Lymon on the cheek like a pile driver, batting him hard. The other shot out for Sheela.
    It was the briefest glimpse: something glass or clear plastic, capped in blue with a needle tipping it. The attacker’s arm had thrust out like a fencer’s lancing the device at Sheela.

    Lymon would remember the expression on her face, the look of shock in her eyes, as she stumbled backward, away from the assault.
    Lymon caught his balance, planted a foot, and ducked under the outstretched arm. He jabbed with his own elbow, striking at the man’s ribs. That quickly, the assailant twisted away and his other hand rose, a blocky black thing clutched there. He jabbed it at Lymon’s side.
    The jolt sent a spasm through Lymon’s body; lightning flashed behind his eyes. Convulsing, he bucked backward into Sheela.
    Dot was screaming at the top of her lungs. Lymon could hear Sheela’s panicked gasp as she struggled under his weight.
    The bellhop hesitated, a desperate expression on his face. Lymon caught his breath, willed his body to react, and bulled his way forward on rubbery muscles as Sheela pushed him from behind.
    The bellhop dug at a pocket and pulled something—an aluminum can—free. Lymon saw the man’s thumb as it popped a ring up. The guy dropped the can before turning to run.
    Catch the son of a bitch! It took all of his self-control to hesitate. The gleaming aluminum canister was hissing as it rolled along the carpet. Dot was still screaming something unintelligible. Sheela looked like a spotlighted deer.
    Lymon turned, bent, and drove his body into Sheela’s, tumbling her backward and bowling Dot off her feet. The fake Oscar statue bounced across the carpet.
    â€œStay down!” he screamed as he threw himself on top of Sheela’s squirming body. “Don’t move!”
    He stared into her terror-bright eyes, was aware of her open mouth, of her tongue so pink behind perfect white teeth.
    Bang! Lightning strobed, blinding in intensity. Lymon’s body jerked at the concussion, and something slapped painfully through his skull. He winced, cringed, and tried to press Sheela’s body into his own. His ears hurt and rang—the way they did when someone shot a large-caliber handgun in a small room.
    He could feel Sheela’s body, looked into her famous blue
eyes, and watched her panic. Later, he would remember the pulse throbbing in her neck.
    It seemed an eternity before he felt the hand on his shoulder, turned his head, and looked up. Paul was leaning down, his lips moving as if shouting, but only the horrible ringing filled Lymon’s ears.
    Dear God! What just happened here?
    FBI HEADQUARTERS, PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, WASHINGTON, DC
    The clicking of the pen was slowly driving Special Agent Christal Anaya toward lethal violence. She was sitting next to Sid Harness—maybe her last friend in the world—and he kept clicking the damned ballpoint with his thumb. She was in enough trouble—her career balanced on the line. At best, she faced professional humiliation, at worst, outright dismissal. Nevertheless it took every fiber of being and will to keep from reaching out, twisting the pen out of Sid’s hand, and driving it into his neck like a stiletto.
    The conference room was on the seventh floor, mucky-muck territory where the suits lived. It had taken extraordinary measures to bring Christal here.