First Strike by Jack Higgins Page B

caught him in the leg and he fell heavily against the wall.
    Halford dragged Rich and Jade to the floor. Rich landed beside Steve—the man’s eyes were closed, his face slack. The metal briefcase was inches from Rich’s face, but still cuffed to Steve’s wrist.
    The attacker ducked into a doorway as Chuck returned fire.
    â€œGet the cell phone!” Chuck was yelling. “Get Steve’s cell phone.”
    â€œThe phones aren’t working,” Rich yelled back.
    â€œJust get it!”
    He could see the agent’s cell phone poking out of his inside jacket pocket. It was big—a combined phone and Personal Digital Assistant like a Blackberry or an iPhone—and it caught in the lining as he tried to grab it.
    Jade and Halford ran to join Chuck, the President and the other surviving agent. Rich was still tugging at thephone. It was seriously bulky with a full QWERTY keyboard and LCD display. Finally, it came free and Rich was up and running after Jade and the others.
    But the gunman was firing after them again. Another man from the orchestra had reached the doorway to the Roosevelt Room and was also firing.
    â€œGet the President!” someone was shouting. “We need the President. And the codes!”
    Jade disappeared round the corner of the corridor. She turned, staring back at Rich.
    â€œGo!” he yelled.
    A bullet tore into the wall close to his head. He dived sideways through the nearest doorway—a waiting room with sofa and armchairs. He slipped, fell, rolled across the floor and managed to crawl behind a sofa.
    A split second later, the man with the dark beard appeared in the doorway. He glanced round the apparently empty room. “I know you’re in here,” he growled. “And there’s no other way out.”
    The gunman saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and fired instinctively at the shape emerging from behind the sofa. His aim was deadly accurate.
    Jefferson Kent swept plates and cutlery from the side table. One of the gunmen dragged Steve’s body into the room and dumped him in a chair beside the table. The metal briefcase, still attached to Steve’s wrist, was placed carefully on the table. “Wish we’d waited till he woke up,” the gunman grumbled.
    â€œHey,” another told him, “you’re lucky he’s not dead. He took a couple of the trank darts meant for the President. He’ll be out for quite a while.”
    â€œWe have the two Chinese delegates and some other impressive VIPs. Now we just need the man himself,” said Kent.
    â€œTom’s on it.”
    Kent turned to Kate Hunter, standing beside him. “I didn’t see you shoot anyone.”
    â€œI thought the idea was to take hostages, not kill people,” she told him.
    â€œI guess it was. Let’s get these hostages split up a bit. Lorraine will have us sealed in nice as pie, and it won’t be long before the predictable General Wilson sends in the cavalry.”
    â€œYou won’t get away with this,” shouted a Secret Service agent being held at gunpoint.
    â€œShut him up,” said Kent, without turning.
    The nearest gunman thumped the man viciously in the stomach. He doubled over, retching.
    â€œNext time, it will be a bullet,” Kent told him.
    One of the gunmen handed Kent a handgun taken from a dead agent. Kent weighed it in his hand for a moment. Then he tossed away his own gun—a strange thing made from the pieces of a trumpet. It landed in a large bowl of fruit punch, splashing viscous liquid across the table.
    â€œShe doesn’t get one,” said Kent, waving his new handgun at Kate Hunter. “Not sure I trust you yet, new girl. You got to prove yourself.”
    â€œLet me have a gun, and I will.”
    Kent smiled. His hoarse whispering voice was the only sound in the room. “That’s what worries me. Maybe that kid did recognise you. Maybe we’ll keep an