The Rescue(106)

“Please,” said Harcourt, giving Frist an exasperated look.

“I’m serious,” said Frist.

“I just need you to secure the study and wait for law enforcement to arrive,” said Harcourt into his radio. “If you run into Decker or his accomplice on the way, you are authorized to use lethal force.”

“Kill them!” yelled Frist.

“Kill them on sight,” said Harcourt, placing his hand on the camouflaged biometric panel.

“Understood, sir. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Frist slipped into the safe room hallway the moment it cracked open far enough to admit his body, the bottle of scotch catching on the cherrywood doorframe and tumbling to the hardwood behind him. The senator dropped to his knees and groped for the bottle, knocking it several feet into the study. For a brief moment, Harcourt thought Frist might crawl after it.

“There’s plenty of booze in the safe room,” said Harcourt, pulling the senator to his feet by the collar of his blazer. “We’ll break out another bottle as soon as the door locks. We can break out ten bottles for all I care.”

“You have Blue Label in there?” said Frist, glancing back into the study.

“No!” said Harcourt, finally losing it. “I have bottles that cost twenty times as much!”

Instead of looking insulted, Frist’s eyes widened, and his feet started moving. When both of them stood inside the safe room, clear of the doorway, Harcourt hit the panic button mounted to the wall next to the entry. In the blink of an eye, a titanium door slid out of the wall, sealing the entrance. A loud hiss immediately followed.

“What was that?” said Frist.

“The positive-pressure air system just activated. They can’t smoke us out, use poison gas, or anything like that. No air can be forced into the room.”

“Then how do we breathe?”

“Gerry. I’m not going to explain every intricacy of this room to you,” said Harcourt. “Suffice it to say, the room is self-contained and impervious to explosives.”

“How big of an explosion?” said Frist. “And I don’t think that qualifies as an ‘intricacy,’ given what we heard out there.”

“That sounds more like the Gerry Frist I’ve come to admire,” said Harcourt, sucking up a little to keep him calm. “The walls can withstand more than anyone would use to breach a room without bringing the entire house down with it.”

“I don’t think he cares about demolishing your house.”

“Fair enough. Which is why we took out an insurance policy. I just need to keep him occupied long enough for our small army to arrive.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Frist. “I don’t want to die in here.”

“Then let me introduce you to an old friend of mine,” said Harcourt, tapping a screen embedded in the wall next to the stainless-steel panic button.

A cherrywood panel on the opposite side of the room slid open to reveal a recessed alcove stocked with expensive-looking bottles. Harcourt reached inside and removed a bottle he’d sampled only twice since he’d purchased it. One of sixty-eight bottles ever produced. He reckoned a few glasses of the rare spirit were a worthy sacrifice, if it might distract this panicmonger. Actually, he’d be happy to give up the entire bottle if it shut him up.

“The Balvenie forty-six-year-old,” said Harcourt, cradling it in his hands like a priceless relic.

“How much is that per bottle?”

“About thirty thousand dollars.”

“Now that sounds like the kind of friend I’d like to meet,” said Frist.

“Gerry. After Monday’s vote, you’ll be well on your way to meeting more friends like this,” said Harcourt. “We just need to wait this out and let the professionals take care of Decker.”





CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Decker and Pierce raced through the floating ash until they reached the epicenter of the second blast. The hallway was barely passable at that point; the plastic explosive’s high-order detonation had collapsed part of the ceiling. After pushing through a tangle of scorched lumber and fallen drywall chunks, Decker located the security hub—easily identifiable by a thick blood trail leading from the hallway into the glowing room.

Decker crouched next to the splintered frame, taking a quick peek inside. A man lay motionless on the floor in front of a bank of flickering screens, his right leg missing from the knee down. Blood pumped out of the stump at a steady rate. Pierce settled in next to Decker, aiming down the smoke-filled hallway.

“Give me your tourniquet,” said Decker, sliding into the room.

The man on the ground came to life, twisting onto his back and swinging a pistol in Decker’s direction. Decker grabbed the man’s wrist and pounded the butt of his rifle into his solar plexus. The pistol fired once, striking the ceiling above Decker’s head, before the man’s grip loosened and the pistol fell to the floor. He kicked the pistol across the room and placed the barrel of his rifle against the man’s head.

“WARHAMMER?” said Decker.

The mercenary just stared at him with contempt.

“Tourniquet,” said Pierce, tossing the nylon device on the man’s stomach.

“Today’s your lucky day,” Decker told him, slowly backing out of the room. “Make sure Harcourt and the good senator know we’re coming. I assume they’re in the safe room already?”