The Kill Room

and—more troubling—there wasn’t an iota of uncertainty in her eyes, though evidence of the pain was clear.
    Make her work her leg. That’s her weakness.
    He lunged again and again, not actually trying to stab or slash but driving her back, forcing her to shift her weight, wear down the joints.
    And then she made a mistake.
    Sachs stepped back a few yards, turned the knife around, gripping the blade. She prepared to throw it.
    “Drop it,” she called, coughing frantically, wiping tears with her other hand. “Get down on the floor.”
    Swann eyed her cautiously through the smoke, watching the weapon closely. Throwing knives is a very difficult skill to master and works only when there’s good visibility and you have a properly balanced weapon—and you’ve practiced hundreds of hours. And even striking the target directly usually results in a minor wound. Despite the movies, Jacob Swann doubted that anybody had ever died from being struck by a thrown knife. Blade killing works only by slashing important blood vessels, and even then death takes time.
    “Do it now!” she shouted. “On the ground.”
    Still, a flying blade can distract and a lucky hit can hurt like hell and possibly take out an eye. So, as she jockeyed to get the distance right, Jacob Swann kept moving side to side and crouching further to make himself a small, evasive target.
    “I’m not going to tell you again.”
    A pause. No flicker in her eyes.
    She flung the switchblade.
    He squinted and ducked.
    But the throw was wide. The knife hit a china cabinet two feet from Swann and shattered a small pane. A plate inside, on a display rack, fell and broke. He was instantly back in stance, but—another mistake—she didn’t follow through.
    He relaxed and turned back to face her, as she stood leaning forward, arms at her sides, breathing hard, coughing.
    She was his now. He’d get the Glock, negotiate some kind of escape. They could use the chopper for a ride out, of course.
    He whispered, “Okay, what you’re going to do is—”
    He felt the muzzle of a pistol pressing against his temple. His eyes shifted to the side.
    The young officer, Ron apparently, had returned. No, no…Swann understood. He’d never left at all. He’d been making his way through the smoke, carefully seeking a target.
    She’d never been planning to skewer him with the switchblade at all. She was just buying time and talking, to guide the cop here through the smoke. She’d never intended Ron to leave. Her words earlier meant just the opposite and he’d understood completely.
    “Now,” the young man said ominously. “Drop it.” Swann knew he was fully prepared to send a bullet into his brain.
    He looked for a place where the Kai Shun wouldn’t get dented or chipped. He tossed it carefully onto the couch.
    Sachs eased forward, still wincing, and retrieved it. She noted the blade with some appreciation. The young cop cuffed Swann, and Sachs strode forward, gripped the Nomex hood and yanked it off him.

CHAPTER 89
    T HE DISABLED-ACCESSIBLE VAN wove through the emergency vehicles and parked at the curb near Spencer Boston’s house. Lincoln Rhyme had been at the staging area a few blocks away. Given his inability to wield a weapon, as he’d learned in the Bahamas, Rhyme thought it best to remain clear of the potential battlefield.
    Which, of course, Thom would have insisted on anyway.
    Old mother hen.
    In a few minutes he was freed from the vehicle and he wheeled his new chair, which he quite liked, up to Amelia Sachs.
    Rhyme regarded her with some scrutiny. She was in pain, though trying to cover. But her discomfort was obvious to him.
    “Where’s Ron?”
    “Walking the grid in the house.”
    Rhyme grimaced as he looked at the smoldering trees and boxwood and the smoke trickling out of the expensive Colonial. Fire department fans had largely exhausted the worst of the fumes. “Didn’t anticipate a diversionary charge, Sachs. Sorry.”
    He was furious with himself for not considering it. He should have known Unsub 516 would try something like that.
    Sachs said only, “Still, you came up with a good plan, Rhyme.”
    “Well, had the desired result,” he conceded with some, but not too much, modesty.
    The criminalist had never suspected Spencer Boston of anything more than leaking the STO order. True, as Sachs had pointed out, both Boston and Moreno had a Panama connection. But even if Boston had been involved in the invasion, Moreno was just a boy then.