The Overseer (8 page)

Eggart turned to run, pushing past the few disbelieving onlookers, the night in slow motion as he reached the end of the block and crossed to Twelfth.

Only then did he stop.

Where was the car? He spun around, checked the sign to see if he had somehow made a mistake. No. Twelfth—where they had promised it would be. Screams began to echo from behind him, time once again accelerating to full tempo. He could feel the panic in his throat, the acrid taste of indecision.
Maintain focus. Understand the process
. He needed to remain calm, listen to the command in his head. There had been too many hours spent preparing to allow a last-minute hitch to get in the way. He started down the street, aware of the eyes staring at him from the buildings above, tracing his escape. Again, he began to run.

A car turned onto the street, oblivious to the mayhem it had just entered. Without thinking, Eggart darted out into its path, raised his gun, and aimed it at the windshield. The car screeched to a halt as the gunman moved to the door, pulled the driver from her seat, and threw her to the curb. Within seconds, the car was squealing in reverse toward the intersection. A sudden stop, the grinding of a gear; a moment later, it was gone.

 

Sarah followed the bellboy into the small but comfortable room, its view of Central Park. She placed the briefcase next to the mahogany chest of drawers, handed the young man a few dollars, and hoisted the overnight bag up onto the bed. Finally alone, she unzipped her dress and slipped off her shoes, the thick carpet a welcome relief from the confines of heels. Sliding her hands through the sleeves of her dress, she let it drop to the floor and then laid it gently across the bed. And she sat.

She was angry. A simple stone, and she had given in. It was always hardest during trips outside ofWashington, trips away from the routine that helped to keep her in check. The unexpected conjuring memories of the all too familiar. Nothing more than a sapphire’s hue, and she had been transported: the hotel on King Faisad Street, the noise of the al-Balad raging in the background, and the girl. Always the girl, staring at her, plaintive blue eyes, forcing Sarah to promise. “
You will come back.” “Yes.” “You will come for me.” “Yes
.”

No!

She forced her eyes open, only now aware that she had once again drifted back. For several minutes, she sat absolutely still as Amman receded to a distant pocket of her mind. With great effort, she stood and reacquainted herself with the room. The briefcase stared up at her. She knew she would be no good with the files now. She needed to walk. Out and unafraid.

She opted for jeans, a T-shirt, a pair of black boots. Transferring a few dollars from purse to pocket, she slid the briefcase under the bed, then grabbed her coat. The research update could wait.

Seven minutes later, the lights from the traffic on Sixth Avenue glared at her as she made her way downtown. She had little idea where she was heading, but she knew it was good to be surrounded by movement. Around Thirty-sixth Street, she realized she was hungry. She turned right and decided to try her luck on Broadway. Save for a few racing cabs, the Garment District was deserted, a few pockets of dark shadow spilling beyond the sidewalk.

The footsteps behind her only became audible halfway down the block. They were even and clipped, in close synchrony to her own, slowing and accelerating with each change in her tempo. She could feel herself begin to focus on the distinct pattern of the rubber-soled shoes, calculate the distance between herself and her would-be tracker, measure the road in front of her.
Stop it! Ignore them. They’re nothing. It’s someone on the street, anyone, damn it! Don’t give into this—look back and see it’s nothing
!
But the signals were too well ingrained, too near to the surface now for her to shut them out with a simple plea. Twenty yards ahead, the sudden appearance of a second figure, an apparent drunk, confirmed her instincts. He seemed to weave along the street, but with each step, he drew closer and closer, tightening the net around her, forcing her deeper within the shadows. As she began to run, she could hear the quick sprint of the assailant behind, watch the drunk lunge up onto the sidewalk and block any means of escape. The trailer thrust his shoulder into Sarah’s back and sent her reeling into the arms of the man in tatters towering above her.

With one swift move, he threw her into an alleyway shrouded in complete darkness save for the bare bulb that hung from an overhead fire escape. The cold brick scraped against her hands as she tried to cushion the impact, the wall’s brittle edge slicing across her palms and forcing a momentary scream. “Not a word!” She fell to the ground, only to be grabbed by the shoulder and pinned against the wall. The pungent odor of the man’s all-too-convincing costume caused Sarah to wince as he scanned her body, his eyes dancing with a lurid pleasure. The second man appeared over his shoulder and grabbed her by the hair. His eyes betrayed no such longing, no carnal desire for a prey well won. Drawing a small blade to the side of her cheek, he smiled, a sudden animation in the otherwise-vacant expression. “We’ve been sent to give you some advice,” he whispered, dragging the flat of the blade across her lips and down to her chin. “Forget Eisenreich. Today was only the
first trial
, a promise of what’s to come.” He tightened his grip. “Walk away, or next time I won’t be able to hold back my friend here. He seems to have taken a liking to you.” The other man laughed and placed his free hand on Sarah’s breast, pressing hard against her as he groped. The man behind continued to peer down at her, watch as his comrade enjoyed the moment, probe deep within her eyes for the fear, the revulsion that he craved.

No such terror stared back at him. Instead, her gaze revealed a strange emptiness, a cold indifference, a warning that he could not recognize. Trapped for a moment in the lifeless embrace of her eyes, he let his grip relax almost imperceptibly. And in that moment, the devastating precision of a killer schooled in the streets of Amman unleashed itself in an explosion of raw energy. No longer Sarah Trent, the assassin of Jordan drove her knee into the testicles of the man still preoccupied with her breast as her once-pinned arm lunged across the face of the second man, nails finding flesh in a blur of movement. Both men reeled from the onslaught, the knife clattering to the ground in the melee. As if programmed in her attack, she swung her foot into the midsection of the man now holding his bleeding cheek, the jagged snap of breaking ribs forcing an anguished cry as he dropped to his knees. The other man, somewhat recovered from the initial blow, tried to stand but was too slow to avoid the sudden jab of her elbow to his temple. His head smacked against the brick wall, a final burst of air shooting from his mouth before his unconscious body slumped to the hard cement of the alley floor. With equal force, she slammed her coupled fists into the prone neck of the man crouched two feet from her—clutching his chest—and watched as he, too, collapsed to the ground. Only the sound of her own panting breath cut through the silence of the alley. She stood frozen, her mind racing out of control, images of dark, sand-strewn streets forcing their way into her consciousness, tearing her from the cold embrace of the Manhattan night.

“You made the choice, Sarah. You accepted the responsibility.” A solitary face shone through the dank haze, a girl no more than twelve, thin streaks of blood trickling from the bullet hole on her forehead. “Someone had to be sacrificed. Someone.” With a frightened stare, her blue eyes faded to the shadowed recess as the bodies of eight young Jordanian soldiers appeared, each hung from a wire on the wall directly in front of her. The stench from their clothes filled her nostrils, forced her to move her hand to her nose. They dangled side by side
,
twisting gently against the wall—faceless bodies of men who had squealed in death and who now taunted her with their silence. “Say something! Anything!” she screamed. “I had to take you, to stop you! You were the priority, not her! Someone had to be….” The bodies continued to sway in a single rhythm. “Say something, damn you!” Her voice became choked with a torrent of tears. “Anything! Please, anything!”

The white light of the bulb cut through the shadows, extinguishing the horror before her, as a wave of nausea filled her throat. She lay back against the wall, at the mercy of trembling limbs and pumping adrenaline. A thousand voices reverberated within her skull, crackling against the deadly silence of the alley. Violence. Violence again, passionless and exact. She looked at the two men at her feet—still motionless. She had taken them without a thought, a swirl of activity that had come only too easily, spun from a part of her that longed for the anger, the destruction.

She had attacked. Provoked, yes, but she had been the one to unleash a blind fury, the rapid, staccato blows that might very well have killed them both. No thought, only pure animal instinct. Could she have killed? Would it have been that easy for her to slip so far back? She didn’t know, couldn’t make sense of the questions that hammered within her head.
Oh God! Oh God! I was out of control.

Somewhere within, a single voice told her she had to move, distance herself from the bodies. Clinging to the wall and unable to tear her focus from the unconscious figures, she slowly edged her way along to the alley’s entrance. A car raced by as she reached the sidewalk, forcing her to stare out into the empty street, to try to forget the men behind her. The cold calculation of the assassin was gone, replaced by a crippling fear, and Sarah stood alone, suddenly aware that her clothes were drenched in sweat. She began to tremble as she dug her hands into her pockets so as to fold the coat around her.
Somewhere safe. Find somewhere safe.
Again, the voice led and she followed in numb submission, back toward Sixth, back toward lights, people, and the security of others. She didn’t run—somehow the voice would not allow it—but walked with a calm determination, unobtrusive and therefore unseen, unremarkable. As she turned toward the hotel, she felt the first tears of release wash over her cheeks.

Only when she had stumbled into her hotel room, a safe haven now from the attack twenty minutes earlier, was she able to concentrate on what the man had said. “
Today was only the
first trial,
a
promise
…” What had they meant?
And Eisenreich?
She turned and caught her reflection in the mirror, her face a sea of black and red, her hair a tangled mess hanging precariously about her shoulders. But it was the eyes that stole her focus, the eyes not seen since Amman, the cold, unforgiving eyes that stared back and condemned in silence.

It was then that she began to think beyond the attack.
Why? What had provoked it?
A research update. That was all it was supposed to be. Nothing more. Nothing to prompt warnings—
first trial, Eisenreich
…

A cold sweat creased her neck as one name entered her thoughts:
the Committee
.

Sarah forced her gaze to the room around her, the box, holding her in, squeezing her, the safety of isolation.
Of course, the Committee
. It was all too familiar, too much of a life that had come so close to destroying her.
I won’t be drawn in. Whatever this is, I won’t.
She knew what she had to do. Give everything back. Files, notes—the job, if necessary. Let others take the responsibility. Let others carry the weight. Memories of the alley would pass. Memories of Amman. Of herself. She had to protect
herself
.

She reached for her briefcase and noticed the flashing red light on the telephone. For a panicked moment, she wondered whether the message in the alley had been sufficient. They had found her in the streets. No doubt they could find her here.
Ignore it. Let someone else play the game.
But for some reason, she couldn’t. She had to hear it, hear them for herself, know she was running for the right reason. She slid across the bed, picked up the receiver, and dialed the operator. An electronic voice answered, informing her that a single call had been taken at 5:10. After a momentary purr, a second voice came on the line.

“Hi. Xander Jaspers at around six. Look, I don’t know how I could have been so stupid, but when I got back to my office, it suddenly clicked. The Enreich thing. It’s not
En
reich. It’s
Eisen
reich. At least that’s what my instincts tell me. If this does connect, it could be a lot more than either of us bargained for. Call me.”

Jaspers.
Oh my God
. She wasn’t alone; she wasn’t isolated. He had made the connection.
Eisenreich
… And she had been the one to contact him, draw
him
in.
Whose responsibility, Sarah? Whose trust?

She pressed down on the receiver, released, and started to dial.