The Overseer (33 page)

Trista ran down the stairs as fast as her legs could carry her. John caught up and rushed past her to slam through a door. He held it open for her as they ducked down another hallway, through another door, then exploded into the sunlight.

They were at the back of the hotel, near a loading dock. “Where now?” Trista asked, looking around.

John turned to her, a look of shock on his face. “No,” he said, “I don’t want you anywhere near this.”

“What?” she asked, mind racing.

John took the gun he’d grabbed from Vince and put it in her hand. “Take this. Stay safe.”

“John,” she argued, “I’m coming with you.”

He grabbed her by the upper arms, holding tight. “Listen to me, Trista! Angelo warned me!”

“About what?” she asked, knowing that every single moment they wasted was another moment closer to massacre.

“He told me that the Thresher wants you dead. And I can’t let that happen, Trista!”

“What?” she stammered, his strong hands holding her arms tight, bright eyes looking deep into hers. The whole world seemed to be spinning.

“I know I’ve said it all before, but this may be my last time to say it ever again.” He nearly shook her as he spoke. “I have to do this, Trista. I have to go, and you have to stay safe.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, shaking her head, sorting through the dizzying spiral of thoughts.

“If anything ever happened to you,” John said, eyes red, “I’d go crazy. I’d go completely crazy. I can’t let that happen. I’ll die before I let anything happen to you!” He stopped and looked into her eyes with his own soulful gaze. “I love you, Trista. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my entire—”

She kissed him before he could finish. Long. Passionate. As if it were the last time she ever would. As if it were the only time she ever had. John tried to step away, but she held on to him. He returned to her, embracing her with strong arms—then tore himself away.

John backed away from her, slowly at first, eyes still locked. Then he turned and ran.

Trista felt something tear at her heart. She had always aspired to control her heart, to be the master of her feelings. But there had always been one thing that took every weakness in her and turned her into a slave to her heart. She hated him for it. And yet…

Trista watched as John disappeared around the corner of the hotel.

“I love you too, John,” she whispered.

The journalists set up outside of the hotel just at the front doors, filling the sidewalk with tripods, cameras, and bustling people. Television and print journalists alike formed around the area, making a pocket for the senator when he arrived through the glass doors ahead of them. There was a podium with a dozen or so microphones set up in the middle of it all for the senator to make his statements.

A cameraman wiped the sweat from his forehead and watched as the senator’s security approached, asking to see the contents of their bags. It was ridiculous, he thought. He’d never seen this kind of security for a senator before.

“Three minutes,” an aide announced, letting them know that the press conference would begin shortly.

Security might be tight, the cameraman thought, but at least it made sure they were all safe.

John Temple ran toward the street, staring out at the cars—then saw the cargo van with tinted windows.

There.

He could feel it. Dalton Waters was in that van.

John ran, rushing as fast as his body could carry him, watching the vehicle roll along at thirty miles per hour. Just fast enough to see the vehicle going out of sight.

The van came to an intersection filled with cars and stopped at the red light. John pushed himself, feet coming down in a steady patter of lightning-quick steps.

Just ahead.

He dodged between a set of cars and came up beside the van— this was it. He could feel it. The guns, the masks, the men, the plan.

John grabbed the side door handle, opened it, climbed into the backseat, slamming the door shut. The two men sat in the front, a black bag between them.

“What the—?” the driver shouted, shocked and confused.

Dalton, wearing a sport coat over a bulletproof vest and a pulled-back balaclava, turned to see. “John?”

“You can’t do this!” John stated with firm resolve.

“Who is this?” the driver demanded, turning to Dalton.

Dalton ignored the question, swiveling in his seat. “What are you doing?”

The light turned green, and traffic began to move. The driver looked confused for a moment before driving forward.

“I know what’s going on,” John said, “and I’m not going to allow it.”

“Get this guy out of the van!” the driver shouted, before releasing a string of panicked profanity.

A small yellow walkie-talkie in Dalton’s hand crackled. “All teams in position. Are we a go?”

“You’re compromised,” John said to Dalton, still focusing on him. “The plan is compromised. Tell them to abort!”

Dalton lifted the walkie to his mouth. “All teams”—he focused on John as he spoke—“we are a g—!”

John lunged forward, reaching for the walkie-talkie, trying to rip it from Dalton’s hands. Dalton bashed the radio into the side of John’s head and pulled a gun, shoving the pistol toward John’s face.

John stared down the muzzle and froze.

Senator Warren Foster walked out of the glass doors of the hotel and stepped up to the podium, cameras clicking in a loud volley of sound. There was chatter from everyone in the crowd, all trying to get their questions answered.

He gestured to everyone to be quiet. “Thank you for coming today,” he said with the smile he’d been practicing, the one that his people told him made him a potential candidate for the presidency someday. “If you’re all patient, I’d like to get to all of your questions this morning.”

A flurry of hands raised.

“Yes, you,” he said, pointing to a reporter, signaling that he would accept their questions—and the conference began.

Devin thundered down the sidewalks. The hotel was ahead. A tall building with bright lights for signs and floodlights illuminating its sheer walls. Green glass and gold etchings covered everything, art deco across every visible surface.

He could see it. Feel it. The future was arriving at a breakneck speed—driving his burning legs to catch up with the very force and time. Against the very momentum of inevitability.

His vision seemed to blur as he pushed himself forward—the impact of each footfall reverberating up his legs and through his body.

Closer and closer.

Devin shoved through the doors of the hotel and stopped. He was at the wrong end of the building.

To his immediate right were the stairs to the overhead monorail train. Ahead and to the right was the casino. Directly ahead—down a promenade lined with shops, stores, restaurants, and bars, expensive polished surfaces and trinkets of outrageous price—was the lobby. That’s where the press conference was taking place.

Brightly lit with an incredibly high ceiling, marble floors, and gaudy architecture lined by colored lights and flat-panel television advertising the sights and the shows. Like a museum of ludicrously expensive designer baubles.

Devin took a step forward toward the sporadic patches of people.

“Get out of the van!” Dalton ordered.

John stood his ground, staring into the gaping void of the gun barrel. “No!”

“Just shoot him!” the panicky driver shouted. “We’re almost there. There’s no time. Shoot him now!”

Dalton pulled the black balaclava over his face, hiding his identity but still revealing conflicted eyes. “John, I’m only going to ask one more time, and then I really will shoot you—
please
, get out of the van!”

John looked at the speeding traffic around them, wondering if he was expected to jump and take his chances.

“We’ll pull over for you!” Dalton pleaded.

“This is it,” the driver said, removing a rifle with a wooden stock and a set of drum magazines beneath it to each side. “Take the rifle. Shoot this guy and take the rifle!”

Dalton let his eyes move quickly to the rifle for a moment.

John capitalized—swatting at the pistol in his face, pinning it against the driver’s seat. Dalton turned back to John, punching with his left, sending John sprawling back into the bench seat.

He shook off the blow, and when he looked up, Dalton had dropped the pistol and grabbed the rifle from the driver.

John tried to attack, but Dalton was out of his seat—the rifle butt slamming into John’s chest. His lungs felt like they were shattering. Dalton stepped forward, pushed the rifle laterally into John, pinning him down, the drum magazines driving into his shoulders.

“I told you to get out!” Dalton shouted, angry.

“Less than a block!” the driver announced. “Take care of him and get ready!”

John took a fist as he tried to struggle free. The world swam— the world outside blurred in motion.

“I’m not”—Dalton choked, exerting himself in trying to subdue the viciously fighting John—“in position!”

The driver’s voice grew even more intense. “Get the window open!”

“I’m not in position!” Dalton stammered again, taking a knee to the stomach.

“This is it!” the driver shouted. “Do it now!”

John felt Dalton pull away and grabbed at the rifle, trying to stop him. The wooden stock of the rifle hit John in the side of the head like a club. John hit the floor of the van hard. He looked back and saw Dalton—pointing the rifle toward the unopened window: