There was no further trouble till he reached the third floor. There, he stood looking around for a second, heard the sound of Barr's hoarse, rasping voice coming from the left, and raced down the hall.
He came to a halt in front of an office-door guarded by another soldier.
"What do you want, Corporal? Why aren't you downstairs?"
Without replying, Riddell drove a fist into the man's stomach. He gagged and doubled up. Riddell pushed him aside, opened the door, stepped in, and turned the lock.
A voice was threatening from the balcony. "Our enemies in Center City threaten our very lives!" Riddell looked up. The window was open, and standing there delivering his harangue was Barr. Riddell watched him. He was a remarkably small man to be wielding so much authority.
The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall outside, and Riddell heard a shoulder crash against the unyielding oak door. There wasn't much time.
He took a step forward—and stopped.
He stood there, staring at his hands. He was frozen.
He had killed for Center City before, had calmly fired shots into a swarm of fear-crazed looters who were sacking the bombed city, had executed criminals with his own hands in the name of the city. And he had vowed never to kill again. He swore the rebuilding would be accomplished peacefully.
Yet up ahead was David Barr. A bullet in the unsuspecting demagogue's head and it would all be over. But Riddell couldn't do it that way.