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Go, Sachs shouted to herself. Sprint! He's not in here. You're safe. Get her, go . . .
She picked up the pace, her utility belt clanking as she ran. Then, twenty feet down the tunnel, she pulled up. Debating. She didn't like which side won.
"Oh, fuck," she spat out. She set down the suitcase and opened it up. She blurted to the medic, "You, what's your name?"
The uneasy young man answered, "Tad Walsh. I mean, what's going on?" He glanced down into the murk.
"Oh . . . Bitte, helfen Sie mir!"
"Cover me," Sachs whispered.
"Cover you? Wait a minute, I don't do that."
"Take the gun, all right?"
"What'm I supposed to cover you from?"
Thrusting the automatic into his hand, she dropped to her knees. "Safety's off. Be careful."
She grabbed two rubber bands and slipped them over her shoes. Taking the pistol back she ordered him to do the same.
With unsteady hands he slipped the bands on.
"I'm just thinking--"
"Quiet. He could still be here."
"Wait a minute now, ma'am," the medic whispered. "This ain't in my job description."
"It's not in mine either. Hold the light." She handed him the flashlight.
"But if he's here he's probably gonna shoot at the light. I mean, that's what I'd shoot at."
"Then hold it up high. Over my shoulder. I'll go in front. If anybody gets shot it'll be me."
"Then whatta I do?" Tad sounded like a teenager.
"I myself'd run like hell," Sachs muttered. "Now follow me. And keep that beam steady."
Lugging the black CS suitcase in her left hand, holding her weapon in front of her, she gazed at the floor as they moved into the darkness. She saw the familiar broom marks again, just like at the other scene.
"Bitte nicht, bitte nicht, bitte . . ." There was a brief scream, then silence.
"What the hell's going on down there?" Tad whispered.
"Shhhh," Sachs hissed.
They walked slowly. Sachs blew on her fingers gripping the Glock--to dry the slick sweat--and carefully eyed the random targets of wooden pillars, shadows and discarded machinery picked out by the flashlight held unsteadily in Tad's hand.
She found no footprints.
Of course not. He's smart.
But we're smart too, she heard Lincoln Rhyme say in her thoughts. And she told him to shut up.
Slower now.
Five more feet. A pause. Then moving slowly forward. Trying to ignore the girl's moans. She felt it again--that sensation of being watched, the slippery crawl of the iron sights tracking you. The body armor, she reflected, wouldn't stop a full-metal jacket. Half the bad guys used Black Talons anyway--so a leg or arm shot would kill you just as efficiently as a chest hit. And a lot more painfully. Nick had told her how one of those bullets could open up a human body; one of his partners, hit by two of the vicious slugs, had died in his arms.
