Split Second

Sidney Morse pointed his gun at King's head. "Let me tell you exactly what you're going to do. When the clock reaches 10:30A.M., you will take up your position behind the rope. All the rest is taken care of. You have a very important role in this play. I'm certain you know what it is. I wish you luck in carrying it out. Bad luck, of course."

"So will this be an exact replay of 1996?"

"Well, not exactly. I don't want it to be boring for you."

"Hey, maybe I'll have some surprises of my own."

Morse chuckled. "You're not in my league, Agent King. Nowremember, this isn't a dress rehearsal. It's the real thing, so hit your marks. And just so you know, this play will have only a one-night run."

Morse disappeared into the shadows, and King sucked in a long breath. Morse was every bit as intimidating and masterful as before. King's nerves were close to running away from him. It was him against who knew how many. He had one gun, and he didn't for a second believe his ammo was anything other than blanks. He eyed the clock. Ten minutes until it started. He looked at his own watch. It read almost 12:30. He didn't know whether that wasA.M. orP.M. Morse, of course, could have set his clock for any time he wanted.

He looked around, trying to find something, anything, that might help him survive. All he saw was a replay of a horrific event that he'd never wanted to think about, much less relive.

And then it struck him: who was going to play the role of Arnold Ramsey? The answer came to him in a flash. Like father, like daughter! That son of a bitch. He really was going to do it again.

Michelle flitted along the trees, keeping a close eye out for anyone near the hotel. As she did so, she saw Jefferson Parks climb into a truck, its wheels kicking up dirt as he raced off. Okay, one less opponent to worry about, she thought. Satisfied it was safe to try it, she bent low and crab-walked to the fence. She was about to start climbing but then drew back. The low hum had puzzled her, and then she saw the wire running to the fence. She stepped back, picked up a stick and tossed it against the chain link. It hit and was immediately fried. Great, the fence was electrified. She couldn't use the gap in the fence because she'd told Parks about it, and they might be watching for her there, not convinced of her death by drowning. And the gap was so small she couldn't have avoided touching the fence anyway.

She moved back into the woods and thought through the dilemma. Finally she remembered what she'd seen on her first visit here and realized it might be her only way in. She ran to the backof the building where the slope of the land running up to the fence formed a perfect launch site of sorts. She'd been a champion long and high jumper in high school, but that had been a while ago. She measured off the distances, did a few practice jogs, eyed the height of the fence in relation to where she'd be jumping from. She removed her low-heeled shoes, tossed them over the fence, took up her starting position, said a silent prayer, drew in a long breath and took off at a dead run. She counted off her steps, just as she'd been coached. She came within a few seconds of aborting the whole thing as the electrified fence drew closer and closer. If she failed here, the defeat would not consist merely of a few tears at being beaten in a track meet. This one was for keeps.

She lifted off, her legs, arms and back working in unison, her muscle memory returning just in time as she twisted her body, arched her back and cleared the top of the fence by six inches. There was no soft foam to break her fall, and she slowly rose, aching all over, and put her shoes back on. Threading her way to the building, she found another broken window and slipped inside.

72

As the time moved to 10:26, a man appeared from the same doorway King had come through. John Bruno looked confused, frightened and ready to vomit. King could relate; he wanted to throw up too. He and Bruno were the Christians awaiting the lions as the bloodthirsty crowd eagerly anticipated the coming slaughter. When King approached him, Bruno instantly recoiled. "Please, please don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help."

Bruno looked at him with a bewildered expression. "Who are you?"

King started to say something and then stopped. How exactly could he explain this? "I'm your Secret Service agent," he finally said.

Surprisingly Bruno seemed to accept this without question. "What's going on?" asked Bruno. "Where are we?"

"We're in a hotel. And something is about to happen. I'm not exactly sure what."

"Where's the rest of your men?"

King looked at him blankly. "I wish I knew… sir." This was all beyond insane, but what else was he supposed to do? And he had to admit, his demeanor as an agent had come back more easily than he would have thought.

Bruno saw the room's exit door. "Can't we just leave?"