World of Trouble (9786167611136) Read Free Page B

the
courtyard. It was an odd feeling watching himself from the opposite
direction. There was a sense of unreality to it, like he was part
of a video game.
    The footage started with an innocuous view of
the narrow passageway through which they had entered the courtyard.
There was a slight motion at the bottom of the frame and the camera
panned down. A brown and white cat, scrawny and mean looking,
snarled at the camera and moved away at a deliberate pace.
    Exactly at the moment the cat disappeared
from the frame there were several loud noises. Although the sounds
weren’t recognizable on the film as gunshots, that’s what they
were. The camera jerked slightly in reaction to the first shot or
two, then the image started to bounce as the cameraman ran toward
the sound. He rounded the bend in the passageway and entered the
courtyard, and his lens went straight to the Iranian-looking
shooter with the .45.
    When the bullets are flying, it’s the gun
that makes the impression, not the man behind it, but now that
Shepherd was safely tucked up in his hotel room it was the man who
held his attention. Each time the shooter’s face turned toward the
camera, Shepherd leaned forward and studied it.
    The man looked younger than Shepherd recalled
and the expression on his face was puzzling. Shepherd wasn’t sure
what he expected. Rage, fanaticism, triumph perhaps. But it was
none of those things. The man looked amused. That was the only word
for it. Amused.
    The security man was on the left side of the
courtyard charging directly at the gunman, firing as he ran, but
the shooter never moved. The muzzle of his .45 stayed where it was,
pointing directly into the camera lens. It was like a scene from a
movie. The big, black handgun pointed straight at the camera; the
muzzle opening looked as big as the Lincoln Tunnel; and the eyes of
every viewer were drawn straight into it. The gunman held that
pose, not firing. He looked more like a man posing for the camera
than he did a killer.
    The driver was on the opposite side of the
courtyard from the security man, running and firing across his body
at the same time. He was spraying bullets everywhere. Shepherd saw
at least three shots go high, catch the concrete façade of one of
the shop houses, and ricochet away.
    That’s how the producer got hit, he
thought. The shooter didn’t target her. One of Charlie’s
bodyguards shot her by accident.
    When the shooter jerked, lurched a couple of
steps away from the camera, and crumpled to the ground, it was
impossible to tell whether the security man or the driver had hit
him. He just went down. That’s all there was to see. After that,
the security man sprinted straight at the gunman and kicked the .45
out of his hand. Then he dived behind a pile of cardboard boxes and
crouched down while the driver flattened himself against the crates
on the opposite side of the courtyard.
    That was when the silence fell, the one that
Shepherd remembered so well, and it was a full minute before the
security man broke it. Rising up from behind the cover of the stack
of boxes, he lifted his weapon and fired methodically into the
motionless body of the gunman sprawled on the concrete. He kept
firing until his gun was empty and the slide locked open, and then
he dropped the clip and used the heel of his hand to slap in a
fresh one.
    Right after that, in the background beyond
where the gunman lay dying, Shepherd could see something bobbing
along just above a wall of burlap-wrapped bales. If he hadn’t
already known what it was, he might not have been able to guess,
but of course he knew very well. It was the top of two heads, his
and Charlie’s, as they scuttled away to safety.
    Everything that happened after that was new
to Shepherd so he watched the rest with particular care every time
the film was broadcast. But each time he did, he understood what he
was seeing even less than he had before.
    ***
    HE AND CHARLIE had been gone no more than a few
seconds when there was