The Marching Season

see what was going on.
    He aimed at his own house. He thought, Please, God, let the children be upstairs in the nursery! And then he fired at October until his gun was empty.
    Michael heard the first siren as he was changing his clip. Perhaps it was the gunfire, Michael thought. Or perhaps the DSS man had managed to flash an alert before he was killed. Whatever the case, Michael could now hear the wail of several approaching sirens, growing louder with each passing second.
    October appeared in the doorway, waving to Rebecca.
    "Go!" he yelled. "Get away from here!"
    The first police cruiser appeared on N Street.
    October fired two wild shots at the car. "Now, Rebecca! Leave!"
    Michael chambered the first round of his fresh clip and fired four shots at October.
    354 Daniel Silva
    With that, Rebecca Wells climbed into the Volvo and gunned the engine, roaring past the spot where Michael had taken cover. October stepped onto the porch one last time and fired several shots in Michael's direction, then turned and ran into the house.
    Michael rose and followed after him, pounding up the steps, the Browning in his outstretched hands. When he reached the doorway he peered down the darkened center hall and saw October lift a chair and hurl it through the French doors.
    October turned one last time and raised his gun. Michael heard nothing but saw the muzzle spouting fire. He leaned against the exterior of the house; on the other side of the wall he could feel the rounds crashing into the plasterwork. When the gunfire stopped, Michael stepped into the doorway and fired three more shots as October ran across the garden and scaled the fence.
    Michael ran upstairs to the nursery and found the children crying in their cribs, unharmed.
    "Maggie!"
    He heard thumping in the master bedroom and muffled screams. He ran down the hall and turned on the lights in the bedroom. Maggie lay on the floor, bound and gagged.
    "Was there just one, Maggie? Just one gunman?"
    She nodded.
    "I'll be right back."
    Michael charged down the stairs just as a Metropolitan Police officer entered the house, gun drawn. He aimed his weapon at Michael and yelled, "Stop right there and drop your gun!"
    "I'm Michael Osbourne, and this is my house."
    "I don't care who the fuck you are! Just drop the gun! Now!"
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    "Goddammit, I'm Ambassador Cannon's son-in-law and I work for the CIA! Put the fucking gun down!"
    The officer kept his gun aimed at Michael's head.
    "My father-in-law was hit," Michael said. "Both shooters have fled—a man on foot and a woman in a black Volvo station wagon. My children are upstairs with their nanny. Go help her. I'll be right back."
    "Hey, come back here!" the officer yelled, as Michael ran down the center hall and vanished through the shattered French doors.
    Delaroche did not come to Washington to get into a gunfight with Michael Osbourne. Anyone could be hit when bullets are flying around a small space, and Delaroche was unwilling to trade his life for Osbourne's. Besides, he had hit the primary target, Ambassador Cannon, with a good shot in the back. With a little luck the wound would prove fatal. Still, he was angry about failing to kill Osbourne once again.
    He stripped off the tan raincoat as he sprinted down the alley. When he reached Thirty-fourth Street he stepped directly into the path of an oncoming car, a light-gray Saab with a college student behind the wheel. Delaroche raised his Beretta and aimed it through the windshield.
    "Get the fuck out of the car!"
    The student climbed out with his hands raised and stepped aside. "Take it, motherfucker. It's yours."
    "Run," Delaroche said, waving the Beretta, and the student started running.
    Delaroche climbed behind the wheel.
    The college student screamed, "Fuck you, you fucking asshole!"
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    Delaroche drove off. He knew he had to get out of Georgetown quickly. He raced down Thirty-fourth Street toward M Street. If he could cross the Francis Scott Key Bridge to Arlington, his chances of escape would increase dramatically. There, he could slip onto the George Washington Parkway, 1-395, or 1-66 and be miles from Washington in a matter of minutes.
    At M Street the traffic signal turned from green to red as Delaroche approached. A sign warned NO RIGHT turn on red. He considered running the light, but calmness during escapes had always served him well in the past, and he decided not to act rashly now.
    He applied the brakes and came to a stop.
    He