Regarding pairings... Some mystery arrangement involving Wufei Chang (you'll love it; trust me) + established Duo/Trowa + established Hilde/?
Warnings include bombs and bombings, language, assorted violence, same-sex pairings, Wufei being pissy 24/7
A NOTE ABOUT TooT-verse CHARACTER NAMES:
Gerald Yukitani (a.k.a. Heero Yuy)
Joseph "JC" Cross (a.k.a. Duo Maxwell)
Tristan Armstrong (a.k.a. Trowa Barton/Noname/Nanashi)
Book cover by Sarasan
a.k.a. t_shirt1x2 on LiveJournal
Chapter 7: A Taste for Violence
I studied the monitor intently, synching the movements of Schbeiker's mouth with her inane twittering, which I was still listening to via earwick. The security staff in the building surveillance room were used to intrusions by Preventer agents, so I was left undisturbed and able to examine each and every minute detail, looking for any indication that Wilhelm was violent, unstable, or guilty of conspiring to attack a summit attendee.
Despite the hand Schbeiker would occasionally lay on the imbecile's arm, his attention constantly drifted toward the grand staircase and the second floor banister ringing the foyer. One by one, opportunistic trade representatives negotiated the carpeted steps on wobbly legs in order to boast the evening's progress for the assembled press corps, but Wilhelm had no interest in impromptu speeches lubricated by copious amounts of champagne and Chivas Regal.
"You must be exhausted," Schbeiker sympathized with enough sweetness to rival Agent Noin's most hormonal utterance. "What do you say we go get that coffee? Who knows – if we compare notes, maybe you'll be able to figure out who's after Foreign Minister Darlian?"
He was tempted – I could see it in the way his hands fisted and his jaw clenched. He wanted to ride to his princess's rescue more than he wanted his next scoop.
Beside me, seated off to the side in a quiet corner for the time-out I'd assigned her, the foreign minister stiffened. "What's happening?" she breathed.
I held up a hand. I could be at Schbeiker's side in twelve seconds. I braced myself and waited for Wilhelm's reaction.
"You know, maybe I'm over-reacting," I read from the movements of his lips. "It's been a long day. Can I get a rain check on that coffee?"
"Of course! You have my card—call me."
Both Schbeiker and I watched Wilhelm consult with his cameraman before they began packing up. Fifteen minutes later, Schbeiker escorted them both to the main entrance and waved good-bye as they took their leave. I watched their progress on the monitors carefully until the news van chugged through the security checkpoint and turned onto the road.
"Chang, can you confirm Wilhelm's departure?" Schbeiker checked.
"Yes. Turning left onto Waterloo Boulevard now."
"Let's meet back at the foreign minister's private office."
"On our way." I gestured for Foreign Minister Darlian to follow me. She did so without attaching herself to my arm, thank the ancestors.
"So, did you kids have a good time tonight?" Schbeiker perkily inquired upon our arrival.
"Foreign Minister Darlian seemed to enjoy herself immensely," I reported to Senior Agent Schbeiker. "Unless she makes a habit of kissing all of her on-duty escorts, in which case, it was an evening just like any other."
Schbeiker's brows hitched upward. "Oh, really?"
Foreign Minister Darlian unflinchingly met the building intensity in Schbeiker's tone and expression.
"If you'll excuse me, I have work to do," I announced. I did not wait for a dismissal. Pivoting smartly, I made my way to the hall before the foreign minister's stroppy look could manifest itself verbally. I'd never been much for spectator sports. If later events required that I know what was being said behind closed doors, a consultation with the ever-watchful Barton and Maxwell would probably suffice.
Nichol and his team were taking their time packing up, using the excuse to sweep every inch of the wing. I reported the foreign minister's safety and then headed back to the office I'd used to change clothes. Returning the tuxedo to its garment bag, I hug it on a hook behind the door. Collecting my laptop, I made the surveillance room my next stop and copied the security footage from the foyer and the music room (as well as the hallway connecting the two) onto the hard drive.
It was 00:47 – I would have just enough time to return home for a shower, four hours and twenty minutes of rest, and Maxwell-approved portions of caffeine before reporting for duty if I departed now. I wasn't entirely satisfied to be leaving the Peace Building given the day's developments, but without some rest I doubted I'd be of much use the following day, which would arguably be the most dangerous of the summit thus far.
I texted Schbeiker: Departing premises. Will return at 06:00.
In reply, my phone buzzed with an incoming call. "I want to go over the security footage with you," she informed me and I swallowed a sigh.
"Very well."
"Minister's private office."
"Understood."
Upon my return, I found Schbeiker seated at the foreign minister's desk. The door to the private quarters beyond was closed nearly all the way, but I glimpsed only darkness within.
"She's resting," Schbeiker told me quietly. I wordlessly set up my laptop on the smaller computer desk and called up the video feed I'd obtained from the building's mainframe. I watched the silent footage as Schbeiker quickly typed out every word of her dialog with Wilhelm, including time stamps. The reception had lasted nearly three hours. Luckily, Schbeiker had not spent all that time attempting to charm and disarm the buffoon.
"Skip through this bit," she directed and I watched as Wilhelm had a lengthy conversation with another news reporter.
"Did he give you anything we can follow-up on?" I pressed.
"Not really, no. I think he's simply incorporated all of this into his fantasy."
"Including the device? Could he have planted it himself?"
She tilted her head to the side and huffed a breath out through her nose. "Doubtful. He was pretty convinced that he had a rival to contend with."
"Until you offered valuable assistance," I pointed out.
"Haven't seen anyone backpedal that fast since my last trip to the circus." At my prompting glance, she elaborated, "They did this act with a bicycle on a high-wire and—never mind. That wasn't the actual backpedaling. It was JC."
I coughed out a serving of disbelief. "Cross was riding a bicycle on a high-wire?" I intoned.
"Dammit, no, but I would have paid double to see that." She grinned. "No, that was the day JC found Tris… after the accident?"
I nodded. I remembered hearing about that. I also recalled the self-loathing that had followed Winner like a scraggly stray puppy for months after we'd taken up our assigned positions at WEI. It had not been Barton's fate alone for which Winner had been attempting to atone; the colony he'd destroyed when he'd been utterly overwhelmed by the Zero System had weighed just as heavily upon his shoulders. I knew that much, but I had never heard the details.
Perhaps it was a measure of my exhaustion that I prompted Schbeiker to elaborate, "And?"
She shrugged a shoulder. "Well, after the show, JC just takes off – sprints for backstage – and races up to the poor guy, right? Grabs his shoulders and he's going a mile minute about how everyone thought Tris was dead and Tris starts freaking out and that is when Cathy showed up." Schbeiker chuckled. "I have never seen anyone put the fear of God into JC before or since."
The story intrigued me. It was another layer in the strata that was Maxwell and Barton's indestructible partnership. I found it interesting that the two of them had followed that highly emotional meeting with a calm and nearly silent game of chess aboard Peace Million on the eve of battle. As far as I knew, that very game had remained unfinished. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I could see how it had continued throughout our years at WEI: Maxwell had relentlessly – and, to a great extent, in ignorance – drawn Barton closer and closer. Not with the intention of doing the other man harm, of course, but he'd negated Barton's defenses nonetheless.
I shook my head in wonderment. Maxwell truly did not know his own strength.
"Here," Schbeiker suddenly said, drawing my attention back to the monitor. Where it should have been. I was clearly exhausted if years-old recollections were interrupting my focus. "This is where I nearly get something out of him."
I stared hard at Wilhelm's face, but couldn't make out the indistinct mumble that barely moved his lips. I glanced at the screen of Schbeiker's laptop and read as she typed:
The foreign minister is never completely safe. Every day, new groups pop out of the woodwork looking to make a name for themselves. For far too many people, the war just gave them the taste for violence.
It was nothing I hadn't suspected myself, but to hear it coming from a news anchor… I wondered what details his sources had shared with him that perhaps had not yet made their way to a Preventer informant.
Schbeiker had done her best to milk the man for as much information as she could, employing every interrogation technique possible given the circumstances. I could applaud her for those efforts. However, her encouragement that he be the one to protect Relena Darlian was utterly—
"Foolhardy," I chastised Schbeiker, senior agent or no. "You've made yourself part of the fantasy now. You've validated his mad obsession."
Her brows lifted halfway to her bruised hairline. She'd removed her cosmetics at some point following the reception and I could easily evaluate the injury. "You think I wanted to say that crap?" She glanced over her should toward the door that stood ajar. "Still, we've got Wilhelm's prints on the letter opener. He's on a short leash. It's only a matter of time."
That was true. In the meantime, the Preventers would be watching him very closely.
I checked my watch. "Did forensics arrive?" The mention of the most recent vandalism had reminded me.
"Yeah. They called and I briefed them while you were downstairs getting the surveillance footage. Probably just wrapping up now." She nodded for me to continue playing the video and we finished up the script from her conversation with Wilhelm. Upon emailing the packet of video and text off to the digital forensics department at headquarters, I glanced at Schbeiker as she rubbed her eyes tiredly. When she took her hand away, I noticed moisture shining on her fingers.
"Get some sleep," I told her.
"Naw, I'm good."
"I insist. For the Foreign Minister's sake."
"And just where are you planning on bunking tonight?"
"I still have work to do," I informed her. It was true; I probably would not have slept more than an hour had I returned home. There were too many loose ends to attend to and it was my responsibility as much as Schbeiker's to make sure they were dealt with competently.
She sighed and looked at the time. "Give me ninety minutes. Then I want you to wake me. We're taking shifts."
I could hear the "or else" in her tone. "And if I don't?"
"I'll kick your butt from here to Bolivia, Chang."
"You and whose army?" I challenged with a quirked brow.
"Won't need one. You'll be so pathetically sleep deprived it'll be like chucking around a sack of dirty laundry."
I snorted but didn't waste valuable energy denying it. She placed a hand on my shoulder, bracing herself as she stood up. She didn't thank me for taking the first shift. I didn't remind her that I was only doing my job.
A job which I had chosen years ago of my own free will and continued to choose every day thereafter.
Schbeiker stretched out on the sofa against the wall opposite the private quarters, placed her sidearm within easy reach, and closed her eyes. Not two minutes later, her soft snore joined the steady whirr of my laptop's hard drive as I worked through my mental checklist.
The florist.
Sylvia Noventa.
Manning Wilhelm and his brief flash of discomfort during his pre-summit interview.
The latter was easy enough to investigate. I combed through the security logs archive and located the video files from the post-war celebration. I watched as Wilhelm downed his sixth glass of champagne before marching out onto the dance floor to smoothly cut in between Relena Darlian and her current partner. His fingers curled tightly around her hand. Midway through their second dance, a man of intimidating stature interceded and claimed the young woman's attention. I did not know this man, but he watched Wilhelm sulk away, glaring after the rotter until Wilhelm had disappeared from the room.
I checked the other security footage from the evening, but found nothing out of the ordinary… that is, until an ambulance pulled up to the security checkpoint with its lights flashing.
"Wufei?"
I glanced over my shoulder at the sound of Relena Darlian's soft call. I'd heard the telltale rustle of a blanket in the room beyond and the sound of footsteps brushing the plush carpet, but hadn't looked away from the monitor. If the foreign minister required a midnight snack, she was welcome to the energy bar tucked in the outer pocket of my briefcase. And, as she was fully capable of fetching it herself, I had no intention of interrupting my task to attend to her.
"Schbeiker has 15 minutes left," I informed her on a breath.
She nodded, looking past me to the agent still snoring softly on the sofa. Then she invited herself to take the seat beside mine, folding herself into its embrace like it was a second housecoat. "This is the night of the Peace Ball, isn't it?"
I nodded. "You remember it?"
"Of course. It's not every day we have to call for emergency medical service."
"What happened?"
"Lord Fitzhuey – the steward of the Sanq Kingdom – fell from the terrace and hit his head on one of the stone planters. He nearly died."
I replayed the video, rewinding to the large man who had sent Wilhelm scampering from the dance floor. "This is Fitzhuey?"
"Yes."
"He was protecting you."
"He protects the Peacecraft family."
"Where is he now?"
"Retired. His injury was… severe."
"Was a report filed? Did he tell you what he remembered of that night? Of his fall?"
She shook her head. "But I haven't spoken with him in a long time. He returned to Sanq. Last I heard, chronic headaches were still preventing him from resuming his duties."
I nodded and added yet another point to my checklist. I excused myself to use the restroom – "Through there," Relena Darlian directed me – and I passed through the small, serviceable den (with an enviably large sofa that the foreign minister had been utilizing) to reach the facilities.
Upon washing up, I dug out my phone, calculated the time difference, and placed a call to the office of the Sanq government.
It was still far too early in the morning for the receptionist to accommodate my request, but I instructed her to make arrangements as soon as possible for either myself or Agent Hilde Schbeiker to speak with Lord Fildemore Fitzhuey.
Returning to the office, I found Schbeiker sitting behind my laptop, toggling between the different video angles I'd left on the screen. Relena Darlian wished me a good night as she returned to her room and pushed the door nearly shut once again.
Quietly, I told Schbeiker, "I've placed a call to Sanq."
She nodded, still staring at the screen. "It looks like everyone was drinking heavily that night." Letting out a deep breath, she shook her head. "We – the Preventers, I mean – we should have seen it. Wilhelm. We should have made the connection."
I placed a hand on her shoulder. I didn't remind her that she'd still been pedaling scrap in L2 when this had occurred. It would not have comforted me, were I in her shoes. "As far we know, no one else has been attacked." It was the only solace I could provide.
She accepted it with a tired but grateful smile. "Get your butt to bed before I make good on my earlier threat."
I pointedly looked at my watch. "Your ninety minutes will be up in exactly… twenty seconds."
She snorted softly with amusement and waved me away.
I went.
The sofa was still warm from her time upon it. The indentations from her shoulder and hip remained as well. I flipped the matching throw pillow over, slid my right hand and gun beneath it, and closed my eyes.
An instant later, I opened them as a beam of light stabbed through my closed eye lids. Ancestors both infamous and beloved, all I ask for is five more minutes of sweet respite.
I heard Schbeiker snort in response to my grumbles. "On your feet, sourpuss. I need a power nap and then it's show time."
The monumental effort that I expended in order to swing my legs over the side of the sofa and sit up went completely unappreciated. Schbeiker had already plopped down next to me and was attempting to wiggle her way into the narrow space between my back and the sofa cushions.
"All you had to say was 'please,'" I grouched.
"Yeah right. You'd tell me to stick it where the sun don't shine." She yawned widely enough to crack the joints in her jaw.
"Well, as it would have been said in my native language, I doubt you'd have been overly bothered."
She snored in response. But having already heard her noise-making tendencies in true slumber, I was certain this one was manufactured.
I stood up and crossed the room, rapping twice on the door to the private rooms.
"It's open!"
"Foreign Minister," I greeted and waited for her response before entering the room.
"Good morning. Thank you for staying last night," the foreign minister continued with a brief glance up from the documents spread out over the long coffee table. She was already dressed and groomed for the day. I consulted my watch. 05:40.
"There's a shaving kit in the bathroom," she added.
If only there were a time capsule alongside it so that I might enjoy a full night's rest, a hot shower, and freshly laundered clothes. I sneered at my reflection in the mirror. Beggars couldn't be choosers and from the looks of it I certainly qualified as a vagrant of some sort.
A shave did little to improve my appearance. The scrape along my hairline stood out twice as vibrantly as I recalled, a visual effect that was enhanced when I tidied up my hair.
"Here, try this."
I turned and stared blankly at the item the foreign minister was holding out to me. "What," I uttered, "is that?"
Her lips twitched so briefly I wondered if I'd imagined it out of sheer sleep deprivation. "A marvelous disguise," she informed me, then gestured to the closed lid of the commode. "Here, sit."
I did no such thing. I watched with distaste as she opened the nondescript, plastic container and removed a small, flesh-colored sponge. "I do not require cosmetics."
"It looks like you require an undertaker."
"I'm sure I'll be more intimidating as a member of the undead."
"Won't the tabloids love that," she muttered through a smile. "Zombies in the Peace Building. Now stop complaining and tilt your chin down."
I glowered. "I refuse to wear more makeup than that nitwit of a news reporter."
"You won't be. I promise."
With a long sigh, I gave in. I would undoubtedly regret this, but I simply didn't have the energy for the required indignation. The foreign minister dabbed the sponge against my forehead, instructing me to close my eyes as she blended the powder over my brow and temples.
"You know," she volunteered, "I went to school with Manning. I've known him since the first day of classes. We were six years old."
I opened my eyes and studied her expression.
"We even attended the same boarding school, right up until the night of my fifteenth birthday party."
"And what became of your chummy camaraderie thereafter?"
"I left to pursue my destiny," she replied bluntly. "I never gave a thought to how that would affect the people I'd left behind."
"Someone is always left behind," I pointed out and the foreign minister's hand froze just over my brow. "It is inevitable."
I have seen Maxwell, Winner, Barton, and Yuy – all war-hardened soldiers – flinch at the ring of truth when it is spoken aloud. Like them, I too felt the sting of my own words; I remembered Meiran. I recalled Master Long. My family. My young cousins.
The power of speech truly was aptly named. I endured the whiplashes first and foremost, every time. I doubted any of my comrades had ever noticed.
The foreign minister did. She grasped my shoulder. "Yes, it is inevitable that we must grow apart and grow up. It's a privilege that most people don't appreciate."
My chin jerked up. I scanned her face, studied every nuance. It was not often that I was given food for thought. I said nothing as the sponge descended yet again.
"There. It's not precisely your color, but at least you don't look like you're fighting a craving for fresh brain matter."
I scoffed at the idea. "As if those imbeciles have anything between their ears that would be worth the effort."
"That's the spirit," she congratulated me.
I glanced in the mirror as she moved to retreat and I was forced to admit that the cosmetics had accomplished their intended purpose: I looked passably rested. The application of artificial color was not a habit I was interested in acquiring, but just this once I would allow female intervention in my daily toilet routine.
Schbeiker had also partaken of some cosmetic or other; when I returned to the office, she was sitting up in the sunshine, her bruise from the day before perfectly concealed. She stood and moved toward the door, clearly intending to lead our march to the breakfast room.
"Don't get between me and the coffee," she advised me.
"Ladies first," I drawled.
"I owe you an eye-roll for that."
"My life's ambition is realized at long last."
"And there's the second dose of sarcasm. Are we going for double-or-nothing?" she retorted.
"By all means, let's start the day with a gambling metaphor."
She winced, clearly less than thrilled with the reminder of the challenges that we would inevitably face today. "You would be a curmudgeon this early in the morning."
"Am I not always this agreeable, no matter the time of day?"
"Geez-o-Pete. You are. How did I not notice before now?"
The Foreign Minister stepped between us and reached for the door knob. "Come along, children. There will be plenty of coffee and tea for everyone."
Well, she was correct in that, at least.
The crowd was more subdued than they had been the previous morning; it was obvious that the morning-after hangovers were plentiful.
"You," I accused the foreign minister as she buttered a steaming muffin, "planned this."
"Did I?" She didn't seem particularly surprised or offended by my remark.
I smirked and took a sip of mediocre green tea. Where the photo ops with children had failed to provide many of the representatives with the proper perspective, it appeared that whiplash from overindulgence had succeeded in subduing them. As I expected, upon hearing the warning chime for the morning congress, they wincingly rose in dribs and drabs, shuffling dutifully like so many herd animals toward the auditorium.
Only Winner and a handful of others appeared to have their wits about them.
The coming vote was guaranteed to be one of the quickest in recorded history. If for no other reason than the representatives' main priority was to refill their coffee cups and procure a second dose of analgesics as soon as possible.
I scanned the attending staff members, spotting the familiar faces of my fellow agents. The director had indeed mustered the troops. The Preventers had taken over the summit right down to the last usher and server. It should have been reassuring to see such an efficient and immediate response, but the spot between my shoulder blades itched. The small muscles bracketing my spine twitched. After all, it was impossible for someone to literally watch their own back.
As the representatives filed into the auditorium, I lingered in the hall. Schbeiker escorted our charge on ahead as I placed a call. It went unanswered. I called a second number.
"Yo, Wu," Maxwell greeted. "Armstrong's got your back. Just don't look too hard for him."
"What do you need?" I asked.
"Got it all covered, man." He hung up before I could cut the connection.
"Agent Chang?"
I turned and discovered a very displeased assistant to the foreign minister standing in the middle of the hall, feet shoulder width apart and arms akimbo. "Miss Noventa," I acknowledged.
"I understand that I'm a suspect."
I did not deny it.
She straightened her shoulders. "I don't suppose you'd do me the curtesy of telling me what I'm accused of? It must be quite impressive to get me banned from contacting my own employer."
"It is," I allowed, but said nothing further.
She glared at me until my impassive expression soured her irritation into disgust. "Rather than giving me inconsequential busywork that was a complete and utter waste of my time and energy, you might have simply told me."
I made no attempt to justify why I hadn't.
Sylvia Noventa concluded, "I'd expected better from you."
With calculated indifference, I watched her walk away in the opposite direction of the auditorium. If her intention had been to chastise me, she'd failed. I had been doing my job. Kindness of the variety that soothed egos and eased hurt feelings was not listed among my professional responsibilities.
What was more pertinent was the fact that Sylvia Noventa had overcome her unease to admonish me. The real question was whether she'd done so because the changes to the previous evening's events had thwarted her and her cohorts' efforts to carry out their plans or because she was genuinely offended, which would imply that she had trusted me and I had broken that trust when I had kept her both ignorant and out from underfoot.
Only time and further evidence would disprove one or both theories.
Still in my hand, my phone buzzed. I lifted it to my ear. "Go ahead."
Maxwell blurted, "We have a problem. In the auditorium, 3 o'clock."
I quickly caught up with the crowd and, standing on the threshold of the room, scanned the indicated area, I spotted a blonde woman working her way through the throng. Her suit, her hair, her posture… from this perspective – seen from behind – she appeared to be Sylvia Noventa.
This was, indeed, a problem. "Impossible," I told Maxwell.
"Exactly. Tris is moving to intercept."
"Confirm that Sylvia Noventa is not in the auditorium," I hissed.
"Confirmed," Maxwell reported back. "She's in the Guest Services office."
Then who in the hell was this?
I kept the phone line open as I surveyed the room, searching for any indication of what the woman might be doing. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one.
None other than Wilhelm was trailing in her wake. She stumbled, one slender heel of her conservative pumps twisting in the thick, lumpy carpet. She bumped into the Tin and Aluminum representative and her clipboard tumbled from her grasp. She stooped to retrieve it, and suddenly – inexplicably – I knew that something was about to happen. My tongue soured with the taste of it. The same eerie premonition that had saved me from being blown to bits along with the blue bird bomber once again lifted the veil from my eyes.
"Schbeiker," I began, speaking both into the phone and into the earwick mic, "blonde female, grid H-2," I described, using the map we'd made of the room, "navy suit, 5'6", 60 kilograms. Confirm visual."
"Visual confirmed. It's Sylvia."
"No," I told her. "It is not."
Schbeiker was silent as she re-evaluated the subject. "Confirmed," she concurred. "She has something in her hand: a clipboard and… unidentified electronic device."
Neither Schbeiker nor myself bothered to speculate on what an unauthorized individual might be planning to do with an electronic device in a room full of colony lobbyists and politicians. But how? How was the attack to be implemented?
I took a step into the room, treading upon the poorly-laid, gaudy golden carpet.
The carpet. The new plush carpet with thick-hemmed edges and irritating bubbles beneath its surface. The carpet that ringed the entire auditorium like a snare.
I gazed at the assembly in dawning horror. The foreign minister, the union representatives, and the full force of the Preventers all stood within its grasp.
"The carpet," I told Maxwell and Schbeiker very quietly as I moved forward. "The carpet is a factor in their plans."
Due to an impenetrable gaggle of politicos, the suspect was forced to make a detour which brought her and the items she carried into my direct line of sight. What appeared to be a microphone amplifier was sitting atop the woman's clipboard. She unhurriedly made her way to toward the stage and the Foreign Minister's seat in the center of the long table. Again and again, I was blocked by oblivious idiots. She reached her target before I was halfway across the room. She placed the clipboard upon the table, presumably delivering the final draft of Foreign Minister Darlian's address to congress, adjusted the microphone stand, and moved to exit on the opposite side.
Her hands were empty. Spotting the small, black electronic box now connected to the foreign minister's microphone, I made an educated guess: "Remote detonator, electronic."
"Copy that," Maxwell promptly replied. "Stand-by for EMP."
Electro-magnetic pulse. It would destroy any electrical system operating in the vicinity. "Negative. Heart assist implants," I argued bluntly, remembering that at least one of the representatives had listed the procedure under the medical conditions each attendee was required to report.
"Shit." Without bothering to disconnect our call, he made contact with his undercover husband, "Tris. We need a short-range signal jammer on a mic amp. Stage, center of the table. Grid D-8."
I said nothing as Maxwell communicated the situation to his spouse. I could not hear Barton's response, but at that moment, I had other concerns.
Wilhelm had managed to intercept the intruder, blocking her path. Due to the obstacle that the man's bulk created, I could not see what was happening or being said, but suddenly, he leapt back. I saw a black device of some sort in her outstretched hand.
A gun?
I cued the Preventers' earwick channel and initiated the alert as I witnessed the altercation from a frustrating distance.
With the woman's arm sweeping through nothing but empty air, Wilhelm executed a timely push, thrusting her against the cherry wall paneling. She ducked under his arm and shoved her way into the crowd. I did not see the device in her hand.
"Taser," Maxwell informed me. "Wilhelm's picking it up."
That wasn't all he was doing.
"Schbeiker, stay with the foreign minister. Wilhelm has a Taser," I managed to spit out as I lunged after the blonde woman. She was moments away from the auditorium's side exit. I was the closest agent. If I didn't reach her… No. I would. I would not accept another failure!
"I see a cell phone," Schbeiker reported. "No Taser."
A cell phone? I couldn't afford to look away from my query to check.
Schbeiker added, "He's dialing."
I took two more swift steps toward the suspect, dodging one slowly moving body and then a second. I was less than three meters away and closing fast.
In the next instant, a roaring blast rocked the building, overwhelming my ears and plunging me into silence. Lights exploded and the floor rippled underfoot. In that instant, the entire room was plunged into smoke and darkness.
