He smashed his forearm into the crashbar of the exit door. It flew open and he lunged through the opening, dragging the kicking St. Jacques woman with him.
“Stop it!” she screamed. “I won’t go any farther! You’re insane! Those were gunshots!”
Jason slammed the large metal door shut with his foot. “Get up!”
“No!”
He lashed the back of his hand across her face. “Sorry, but you’re coming with me. Get up! Once we’re outside, you have my word. I’ll let you go.” But where was he going now? They were in another tunnel, but there was no carpet, no polished doors with lighted signs above them. They were in some sort of deserted loading area; the floor was concrete, and there were two pipe-framed freight dollies next to him against the wall. He had been right: exhibits used on the stage of Suite Seven had to be trucked in, the exit door high enough and wide enough to accommodate large displays.
The door! He had to block the door! Marie St. Jacques was on her feet; he held her as he grabbed the first dolly, pulling it by its frame in front of the exit door, slamming it with his shoulder and knee until it was lodged against the metal. He looked down; beneath the thick wooden base were footlocks on the wheels. He jammed his heel down on the front lever lock, and then the back one.
The girl spun, trying to break his grip as he stretched his leg to the end of the dolly; he slid his hand down her arm, gripped her wrist, and twisted it inward. She screamed, tears in her eyes, her lips trembling. He pulled her alongside him, forcing her to the left, breaking into a run, assuming the direction was toward the rear of the Carillon du Lac, hoping he’d find the exit. For there and only there he might need the woman; a brief few seconds when a couple emerged, not a lone man running.
There was a series of loud crashes; the killers were trying to force the stage door open, but the locked freight dolly was too heavy a barrier.
He yanked the girl along the cement floor; she tried to pull away, kicking again, twisting her body again from one side to the other; she was over the edge of hysteria He had no choice; he gripped her elbow, his thumb on the inner flesh, and pressed as hard as he could. She gasped, the pain sudden and excruciating; she sobbed, expelling breath, allowing him to propel her forward.
They reached a cement staircase, the four steps edged in steel, leading to a pair of metal doors below. It was the loading dock; beyond the doors was the Carillon du Lac’s rear parking area. He was almost there. It was only a question of appearances now.
“Listen to me,” he said to the rigid, frightened woman. “Do you want me to let you go?”
“Oh God, yes! Please!”
“Then you do exactly as I say. We’re going to walk down these steps and out that door like two perfectly normal people at the end of a normal day’s work. You’re going to link your arm in mine and we’re going to walk slowly, talking quietly, to the cars at the far end of the parking lot. And we’re both going to laugh--not loudly, just casually--as if we were remembering funny things that happened during the day. Have you got that?”
“Nothing funny at all has happened to me during the past fifteen minutes,” she answered in a barely audible monotone.
“Pretend that it has. I may be trapped; if I am I don’t care. Do you understand?”
“I think my wrist is broken.”
“It’s not.”
“My left arm, my shoulder. I can’t move them; they’re throbbing.”
“A nerve ending was depressed; it’ll pass in a matter of minutes. You’ll be fine.”
“You’re an animal.”
“I want to live,” he said. “Come on. Remember, when I open the door, look at me and smile, tilt your head back, laugh a little.”
“It will be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.”
“It’s easier than dying.”
She put her injured hand under his arm and they walked down the short flight of steps to the platform door. He opened it and they went outside, his hand in his topcoat pocket gripping the Frenchman’s pistol, his eyes scanning the loading dock. There was a single bulb encased in wire mesh above the door, its spill defining the concrete steps to the left that led to the pavement below; he led his hostage toward them.
She performed as he had ordered, the effect macabre. As they walked down the steps, her face was turned to his, her terrified features caught in the light. Her generous lips were parted, stretched over her white teeth in a false, tense smile; her wide eyes were two dark orbs, reflecting primordial fear, her tear-stained skin taut and pale, marred by the reddish splotches where he had hit her. He was looking at a face of chiseled stone, a mask framed by dark red hair that cascaded over her shoulders, swept back by the night breezes--moving, the only living thing about the mask.
Choked laughter came from her throat, the veins in her long neck pronounced. She was not far from collapsing, but he could not think about that. He had to concentrate on the space around them, at whatever movement--however slight--he might discern in the shadows of the large parking lot. It was obvious that these back, unlit regions-were used by the Carillon du Lac’s employees; it was nearly 6:30, the night shift well immersed in its duties. Everything was still, a smooth black field broken up by rows of silent automobiles, ranks of huge insects, the dull glass of the headlamps, a hundred eyes staring at nothing.
A scratch. Metal had scraped against metal. It came from the right, from one of the cars in a nearby row. Which row? Which car? He tilted his head back as if responding to a joke made by his companion, letting his eyes roam across the windows of the cars nearest to them. Nothing.
Something? It was there but it was so small, barely seen ... so bewildering. A tiny circle of green, an infinitesimal glow of green light. It moved ... as they moved.
Green. Small ... light? Suddenly, from somewhere in a forgotten past the image of crosshairs burst
across his eyes. His eyes were looking at two thin intersecting lines! Crosshairs! A scope ... an infrared
scope of a rifle.
How did the killers know? Any number of answers. A hand-held radio had been used at the Gemeinschaft; one could be in use now. He wore a topcoat; his hostage wore a thin silk dress and the night was cool. No woman would go out like that.
He swung to his left, crouching, lunging into Marie St. Jacques, his shoulder crashing into her stomach, sending her reeling back toward the steps. The muffled cracks came in staccato repetition; stone and asphalt exploded all around them. He dove to his right, rolling over and over again the instant he made contact with the pavement, yanking the pistol from his topcoat pocket. Then he sprang again, now straight forward, his left hand steadying his right wrist, the gun centered, aimed at the window with the rifle. He fired three shots.
A scream came from the dark open space of the stationary car, it was drawn out into a cry, then a gasp, and then nothing. Bourne lay motionless, waiting, listening, watching, prepared to fire again.
Silence. He started to get up ... but he could not. Something had happened. He could barely move.
Then the pain spread through his chest, the pounding so violent he bent over, supporting himself with both hands, shaking his head, trying to focus his eyes, trying to reject the agony. His left shoulder, his lower chest--below the ribs ... his left thigh--above the knee, below the hip; the locations of his previous wounds, where dozens of stitches had been removed over a month ago. He had damaged the weakened areas, stretching tendons and muscles not yet fully restored. Oh, Christ!
He had to get up; he had to reach the would-be killer’s car, pull the killer from it, and get away.
He whipped his head up, grimacing with the pain, and looked over at Marie St. Jacques. She was getting slowly to her feet, first on one knee, then on one foot, supporting herself on the outside wall of the hotel. In a moment she would be standing, then running. Away.