He turned and she was there, not twenty feet away. Her robes were torn and she was covered in blood. G.o.d knows whose blood it was. In the fiery glow of the lava she looked like a monster from h.e.l.l itself. The blood on her lips and hands was black and her eyes were so shadowed that she looked more like a skull than a woman whose beauty had once made him gasp with but a single slanting glance.

"Listen to me, Sebastian," she said, her voice thick and heavy. "Stop this I can share Generation Twelve with you. If you truly embrace the Koran and the teachings of the Prophet I can make you one of us; I can make you one of G.o.d's immortals."

"You're insane, Amirah. You've turned yourself into a monster." He put his hand on the sixth lever.

"I am Seif al Din," she retorted, her dark eyes flashing. "Don't you understand? I am the plague, I am the Sword of the Faithful. We don't need laboratories or test subjects anymore. I am the breath of G.o.d that will blow across the entire world. The faithless will die and the faithful will become immortals. Like me. Like El Mujahid." She reached a hand toward him. "Like you, Sebastian if you only accept."

He shook his head and tears spilled down his cheeks. "I'm a greedy heartless b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Amirah but I'm not a monster."

Amirah spread her hands and smiled at him. "Am I a monster, my love?" she said in that old familiar voice that turned a knife in his heart. It was so bizarrely at odds with the bloodstained thing she had become.

"Yes, you effing well are!" The answering voice came from the shadow behind her. Toys.

Amirah turned to look behind her and there was Toys, his clothes torn, his face streaked with blood, his eyes swimming with pain. He leaned one b.l.o.o.d.y hand against the wall and with the other he held his pistol aimed at her. The barrel trembled.

Amirah hissed at him; and Toys managed a mean little smile and hissed back. He looked past her at Gault and at the lever he held in his hands. Toys took a ragged breath.

"Do it," he said.

Amirah swung back toward Gault.

"No!"

"G.o.d," he said softly as the mountains rumbled around him and the heat scorched the air between them. "I loved you, Amirah."

"Sebastian " They both said it, Amirah and Toys.

Gault tightened his grip around the handle and tensed his muscles.

"G.o.d help me," he murmured, "but I will always love you."

She lunged at him as Toys fired the gun and Gault threw his weight back and pulled the lever. Their screams were lost in the rumble as tons of rock collapsed onto the last pipe. In the bowels of the earth, in the furnace of h.e.l.l, the hand of Satan clutched its fiery fingers into a fist and punched upward toward the Bunker.

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four.

The Liberty Bell Center / Sat.u.r.day, July 4; 12:21 P.M.

HIS BREATH WAS as hot as the wind from h.e.l.l and I recoiled from it, twisting in his grip, turning my hips as hard and fast as I could. I drove my knee up into his crotch and at the same time drove the stiffened tips of my fingers up under his jaw, crushing tissue and cartilage above the Adam's apple. Another killing blow that I knew couldn't kill him; but it jolted him so that his head jerked back just enough for me to hit him right over his left ear. Once, twice, three times, rocking his whole body with each shot. I could hear his neck bones grind with the third shot and then El Mujahid suddenly flung me away from him. Maybe when he felt his vertebre start to shift he realized his one vulnerability.

I landed hard and tried a back roll but I didn't have the room and crashed into a filing cabinet so I ended up nearly standing on my head. My own neck sent a lance of pain through my shoulder and back, but I bit down on it, planted my palms on the floor, and hopped backward onto my feet. It wasn't gold medal gymnastics but it got me right side up and I pivoted fast as El Mujahid rushed at me again.

The First Lady shot again and missed and then the slide locked back on the gun.

I knew I couldn't keep this up. I was getting tired and I was getting hurt and this son of a b.i.t.c.h was immortal. He was a monster who couldn't feel pain. Sooner or later he was going to wear me down and then he'd go to work on me with his teeth.

Across the room I heard someone howl in pain and couldn't tell if it was Skip or Top, and I couldn't spare the second it would take to look.

I crabbed sideways to circle him, but he lunged forward to cut the line. That was fine because as he dodged in I jumped sideways to pa.s.s him on his left. His sweeping grab clipped my ear and though it rang my chimes it didn't stop me. I used the impact to spin into a sloppy pirouette that sent me halfway across the office toward one of the artist's tables. At the far end of the table I'd seen what I wanted, but El Mujahid was already coming at me, his face almost black with rage and his teeth snapping as he rushed forward.

Rage, in an opponent, is a very useful thing. It makes smart people do stupid things. If you backpedal from the enraged attacker you simply get smashed against a wall and then he proceeds to beat you to a pulp-or, in this case, tear you apart with his teeth. So I didn't backpedal; instead I went forward to meet him. Not chest to chest like a pair of bulls. I lunged in and down and tucked myself into a cannonball and rolled hard at his lower legs, hitting him full onto his left shin and clipping his right. With his greater upper-body weight and my two hundred pounds of rolling ma.s.s he went flying forward and smashed facefirst into a row of metal cabinets.

I came out of my roll, pivoted, and leaped back toward the artist's table, grabbing at the item I'd seen: a big paper cutter that was bolted to the metal tabletop. I yanked the cutter arm up, grabbed the handle with both hands, and surged my weight to my right. The bolt that hinged the big blade to the cutter board was not designed for sideways resistance and the whole cutter arm tore off with a loud snap of broken fittings. I whirled and El Mujahid was already in motion, coming hard and fast, deadly and fearless, completely unhurt by the collision with the cabinets.

Again I rushed to meet him in the middle of his lunge, but this time I swung the big cutter like a sword, the curved blade whistling through the air. I caught him square, right on the left side of his neck, and the edge of the blade bit deep. The impact jerked El Mujahid to an abrupt stop and he goggled at me, his eyes and mouth gaping in shock. His fingers reached up to feel the heavy blade buried into muscle and tendon. It hadn't cut all the way through his neck, but the very edge of the blade must have buried itself in the big man's spinal cord.

Half an inch was enough.

His immense strength immediately began to melt away as his muscles lost all order and control. He dropped to his knees like a supplicant preparing to abase himself. Gasping for breath, I braced one foot against his body and then ripped the handle free in a spray of blood.

"You can't stop the will of G.o.d " he said with a throat that was filled with blood.

"This was never about G.o.d's will, you stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" I growled as I raised it above my shoulder and then with a scream of pure rage I swung the blade again.

The blade sheared all the way through what was left of his neck and the force of the swing tore the cutter from my hands. It buried itself point first in the linoleum floor and stood there, quivering.

El Mujahid's head bounced and then rolled to a stop, his wild eyes staring with infinite shock up to the heavens.

I staggered back and almost fell.

The First Lady screamed.

Then I heard another cry of pain and turned, my body tingling with nervous tension, my mind reeling from what I'd just done, and I saw Skip Tyler coming toward me, a b.l.o.o.d.y knife in one hand. He looked at me, and then down at the terrorist. He smiled with b.l.o.o.d.y teeth.

"Well," he said hoa.r.s.ely, "aren't you the G.o.dd.a.m.n hero."

And then his eyes rolled up in their sockets and he fell flat on his face.

There were half a dozen pencils jammed into a tight grouping in his back, buried deep into the right kidney.

A b.l.o.o.d.y, trembling shape climbed up from behind the desk. Top was covered with cuts and painted with blood.

"Tough little son of a b.i.t.c.h," he said. He coughed and slumped down to his knees, catching himself with one arm on the desk. The First Lady and I both rushed to him. She got there first and she helped him down into a sloppy sitting position. Her face was as flushed as his. I wobbled toward them and then my legs gave out and I almost fell. Top waved me off. "I'll live, Cap'n. But gimme a second to catch my breath." He lowered his head and sat there, dripping blood onto the floor. The First Lady stroked his hair and held on to him, both giving and taking comfort.

"Did you get him?" a voice asked, and I turned to see Ollie Brown peering up at me with one half-opened eye.

I tottered over and sank down beside him. He was in bad shape. I looked at Top and shook my head. Top winced and hung his head.

"Hey, kid," I said, putting my hand on Ollie's shoulder. "You hold on now."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d blindsided me. O'Brien son of a b.i.t.c.h was the-" he began and then coughed b.l.o.o.d.y phlegm onto the floor. "I should have figured it out. S-sorry for letting you down."

His voice was almost gone. I took his hand and held it just as I'd held Roger Jefferson's, and like Jefferson, Ollie held on tightly as if through it he could cling to life.

"He fooled us all. It wasn't your fault. If anything, Ollie," I said, "it was mine."

He shook his head. "Was it Skip? Was he the one?"

"Yeah."

"You get him, too?"

"Top did."

"He had that baby face." He smiled weakly. "Guess guess it was easier to think it was me."

"I'm sorry I ever doubted you, Ollie."

He coughed. "s.h.i.t happens, Cap." He tried to turn his head. "I can't hear gunshots. Is it over?"

I listened and he was right. There was only silence from the Bell Chamber. I turned to look down at Ollie, wanting to give him some comfort, but for him it was already over. His eyes were open but he was looking into a whole different world.

I bowed my head and held his hand.

Behind me, down the hallway, I could hear new sounds. Running steps. Voices. It took a lot for me to raise my head and look as several figures rushed into the room. Bunny was first, his face streaked with blood and his pistol in a two-hand grip. Gus Dietrich was right behind him. And then she was there.

Grace.

Alive. All of them, alive.

"Joe!" she cried and rushed to me and I pulled her to me, down on the floor.

"We stopped it, boss," growled Bunny, who was bending over Top, his face lined with concern.

Grace wrapped her arms around me and I held Ollie's hand-a man I'd mistrusted and wronged-and I wept for all of us.

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five.

The Liberty Bell Center / Sat.u.r.day, July 4; 12:28 P.M.

A FRESH WAVE of Secret Service agents were the first to enter the Liberty Bell Center. Dressed in hazmat suits, they surged through the building until they found the First Lady. They whisked her away through a back door. Paramedics came to get us. Bunny lingered in the doorway to the office where Ollie and the others lay dead. EMTs worked on Top Sims, putting compresses on over a dozen slashes and stab wounds before loading him onto a gurney. Bunny hovered over them like a mother hen, giving them evil looks every time he thought they were a little too rough. He followed them out, offering a string of suggestions on how to do their jobs. They were probably happy their protective suits hid their faces.

I later learned that Skip Tyler had sixteen broken bones and a ruptured liver, apart from all the pencils Top had rammed through his kidney. Must have been one h.e.l.l of a fight, but I was only marginally sorry I missed it. I'd had enough of violence. Maybe enough for the rest of my life. Even the Warrior who lurked in the back of my soul was glutted for now.

Ollie Brown and the fallen Secret Service agents were zippered into black rubber body bags. Skip and El Mujahid were left to lie where they were. Forensics teams would need to take pictures first. They could rot for all I cared. The EMTs all stopped and stared at the two pieces of El Mujahid. They gave me strange looks and didn't get too close.

Grace sat beside me, her hand on my shoulder, as the EMTs plastered me with bandages and ice packs. When they were done, I said, "How bad was it?"

She was a long time answering that. "Bad," was all she said.

I took her hand and held it. Her fingers were cold as ice.

"Rudy?" I asked, afraid of the answer.

She nodded. "Safe."

When I felt able to walk she and I went back to the Bell Chamber. Brierly saw us and came over. "They tell me you and your man saved the First Lady."

"Men," I corrected. "First Sergeant Bradley Sims and Lieutenant Oliver Brown. They both did their part and Ollie died in action." I paused. "I wanted you to know that Ollie died serving his country."

Brierly nodded. "Thanks, Captain. He was a good man."

"Yes," I said. "He was."

We shook hands and he took Grace aside for a conference call with Church. "I'll be back," she said.

"I still owe you a drink."

"Yes," she said, giving me a sad little smile, "you b.l.o.o.d.y well do."

There were no more crowds. The victims lay in rows and men in white plastic suits were draping sheets over them and searching for identification. Someone had rigged blue Tyvek tarps over all of the windows, but the crowds were gone; all of Independence Mall had been cleared and the whole city was under martial law. The National Guard occupied Center City and dozens of choppers packed with federal agents, scientists, medical personnel, and a lot of other folks were descending on the town.

Rudy sat on the edge of the podium, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, the ends of his tie hanging limply from either side of his throat. He looked up at me and started to offer his hand, but both of our hands were stained with blood. He withdrew his hand and sighed.

"Dios mio, cowboy."

"Yeah."

"Bunny told me that it was Skip after all. Not Ollie. We were wrong."

"Everyone was. Even Church thought that it might be Ollie. Ollie looked best for it. These b.a.s.t.a.r.ds probably picked Skip as much for his innocent face as for his greedy black heart. They fooled us and it almost cost everyone here their lives."

I sat down next to him and for a long time neither of us said a word. His gaze was fixed on a point across the room and I followed his line of sight to where a man in a Hawaiian shirt lay sprawled. Someone had rammed the broken end of a wooden flagpole through his eye socket.

"I didn't know it could be like this," Rudy said at length. "I mean, I've counseled hundreds of cops, but " He shook his head.

I understood and I could hear the deep hurt in his voice. But what could I say? We'd all had to do our parts; and I knew there would be long summer nights to come where we'd sit out in his backyard and watch the stars wheel overhead and drink beer as we talked it through. But that time wasn't now and we both knew it. Across the room some of the Secret Service agents were standing like ghosts, their faces pale, their eyes haunted, as they tried not to look at the bodies lying under sheets.

"It must have been terrible for them," Rudy said.

"For you, too, man."

He shook his head. "I mostly watched. I I'm not sure I could have done what they did. They had to shoot congressmen, civilians "

"You blame them for gunning down these people?"

"G.o.d, no. They're heroes. Every one of them."