the noose finally let go of its victim. He pried the rope loose. His fingers gingerly checked her neck. Not broken.
Was she still alive?
As answer, a shuddering gasp rattled up her frame and out her mouth.
Painter bowed his head in relief.
Her eyes rolled open, panicked and lost. More coughs rattled through her. Arms fought an invisible enemy.
He tried to reassure her, speaking in Mandarin. “You’re safe. Lie still. You’re safe.”
The girl looked even younger than thirteen. Her naked body was bruised in places where a child should not be bruised. Zhang had sorely used her, and afterward left her behind, dangling by a rope, meant to delay him, distract him from the pursuit.
He sat back on his heels. The girl began to sob, curling in on herself. He didn’t touch her, knowing better than to try.
His LASH communicator buzzed in his ears. “Commander Crowe.” It was the head of hotel security. “There’s a firefight at the north tower exit.”
“Zhang?” He gained his feet and rushed to the balcony window.
“Yes, sir. Report is he’s using your partner as a human shield. She may have been shot. I have more men on the way.”
He shoved the window open. It was safety-secured and only opened enough to shove his head through. “We need those roadblocks up.”
“Hang on.”
The sound of squealing tires reached him. A Lincoln Town Car careened from the valet parking lot and headed toward the tower. It was Zhang’s personal car, on its way to pick him up.
Security came back on the radio. “He’s broken out of the north exit. He still has your partner.”
The Town Car reached the corner of the tower.
Painter swung back inside. “Get those damn roadblocks up!” But there wouldn’t be enough time. He had put in the emergency call less than four minutes ago. Law enforcement here mostly dealt with drunken fights, DUIs, and petty thefts, not matters of national security.
He had to stop them.
Bending down, he retrieved his knife from the floor. “Stay here,” he said softly in Mandarin. He rushed to the main room and used the dagger to pry off the ventilation grille. It snapped open with a pop of screws. He reached within and grabbed the black device hidden inside. The EM grenade was roughly the size and shape of a football.
Palming the device, he fled to the suite’s door and out into the hall. Still without his shoes, he sprinted down the carpeted hall. He analyzed a quick schematic in his head, coordinating where the north exit was in relation to his location on this floor. He did a best-guess estimate.
Eight doors down he stopped and pulled out his security key again. He swiped it through the electronic lock and shoved the door open as soon as it flashed green. “Security!” he hollered, and raced into the room.
An older woman, the same one he had spotted earlier, sat in a chair reading USA Today. She tossed the paper in the air and clutched her robe to her throat. “Was ist los?” she asked in German.
He hurried past her to the window, reassuring her that nothing was wrong. “Nichts, sich ungefähr zu sorgen, fraulein,” he answered.
He slid the window open. Again it was only enough to stick his head through. He glanced down.
The Lincoln Town Car idled below. The rear door to the sedan slammed shut. Shots rang out. Slugs pelted the side of the car as its tiressquealed and smoked, but the car had been bulletproofed, an American-built tank.
Painter leaned back and shoved the football-shaped device out the window. He depressed the activation button and threw the grenade straight down with all the force in his shoulder, hoping for a Hail Mary pass.
He pulled his arm back inside. The wheels of the Town Car stopped squealing as it gained traction. He sent a prayer to the spirits of his ancestors. The EM pulse range was only twenty yards. He held his breath. What was that old saying? Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
As he held his breath, the muffled whump of the grenade
Was she still alive?
As answer, a shuddering gasp rattled up her frame and out her mouth.
Painter bowed his head in relief.
Her eyes rolled open, panicked and lost. More coughs rattled through her. Arms fought an invisible enemy.
He tried to reassure her, speaking in Mandarin. “You’re safe. Lie still. You’re safe.”
The girl looked even younger than thirteen. Her naked body was bruised in places where a child should not be bruised. Zhang had sorely used her, and afterward left her behind, dangling by a rope, meant to delay him, distract him from the pursuit.
He sat back on his heels. The girl began to sob, curling in on herself. He didn’t touch her, knowing better than to try.
His LASH communicator buzzed in his ears. “Commander Crowe.” It was the head of hotel security. “There’s a firefight at the north tower exit.”
“Zhang?” He gained his feet and rushed to the balcony window.
“Yes, sir. Report is he’s using your partner as a human shield. She may have been shot. I have more men on the way.”
He shoved the window open. It was safety-secured and only opened enough to shove his head through. “We need those roadblocks up.”
“Hang on.”
The sound of squealing tires reached him. A Lincoln Town Car careened from the valet parking lot and headed toward the tower. It was Zhang’s personal car, on its way to pick him up.
Security came back on the radio. “He’s broken out of the north exit. He still has your partner.”
The Town Car reached the corner of the tower.
Painter swung back inside. “Get those damn roadblocks up!” But there wouldn’t be enough time. He had put in the emergency call less than four minutes ago. Law enforcement here mostly dealt with drunken fights, DUIs, and petty thefts, not matters of national security.
He had to stop them.
Bending down, he retrieved his knife from the floor. “Stay here,” he said softly in Mandarin. He rushed to the main room and used the dagger to pry off the ventilation grille. It snapped open with a pop of screws. He reached within and grabbed the black device hidden inside. The EM grenade was roughly the size and shape of a football.
Palming the device, he fled to the suite’s door and out into the hall. Still without his shoes, he sprinted down the carpeted hall. He analyzed a quick schematic in his head, coordinating where the north exit was in relation to his location on this floor. He did a best-guess estimate.
Eight doors down he stopped and pulled out his security key again. He swiped it through the electronic lock and shoved the door open as soon as it flashed green. “Security!” he hollered, and raced into the room.
An older woman, the same one he had spotted earlier, sat in a chair reading USA Today. She tossed the paper in the air and clutched her robe to her throat. “Was ist los?” she asked in German.
He hurried past her to the window, reassuring her that nothing was wrong. “Nichts, sich ungefähr zu sorgen, fraulein,” he answered.
He slid the window open. Again it was only enough to stick his head through. He glanced down.
The Lincoln Town Car idled below. The rear door to the sedan slammed shut. Shots rang out. Slugs pelted the side of the car as its tiressquealed and smoked, but the car had been bulletproofed, an American-built tank.
Painter leaned back and shoved the football-shaped device out the window. He depressed the activation button and threw the grenade straight down with all the force in his shoulder, hoping for a Hail Mary pass.
He pulled his arm back inside. The wheels of the Town Car stopped squealing as it gained traction. He sent a prayer to the spirits of his ancestors. The EM pulse range was only twenty yards. He held his breath. What was that old saying? Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
As he held his breath, the muffled whump of the grenade
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