THE BEAST ─ five hargreeves

[ 075 ] an honorary member of the umbrella academy

LXXV.

a n h o n o r a r y
m e m b e r o f t h e
u m b r e l l a a c a d e m y

—"OUCH," SAID LUTHER. "That must've hurt."

Zara, knocked onto the ground with her face turned up to the blindingly blue sky, only groaned inarticulately.

The bump on her forehead was throbbing. Every time she blinked, fresh splinters of pain shot up her nerves and skewered her brain. God, it hurt.

"You'll be okay," said Five with a sigh. "I won't let you die when your last words sound like they were taken from the script of a trashy '80s porno."

She groaned again. Partly because of the pain, partly for dramatic effect.

"Luther, bring the car around," Five said. "The briefcase is gone, anyway. There's nothing else to do."

So Luther did bring the car around. Five carried the barely-conscious Zara to the backseat of the sedan. And before anyone starts swooning—no, it was not romantic, and no he did not carry her bridal-style. Five grabbed Zara under the arms and dragged her around like a dead body bashed to pieces on Highway 16.

Finally she was slumped in the backseat of Luther's car. Her head lolled to one side and she dozed off almost immediately. Kiki decided now would be a good time to go rummaging in Zara's pocket for sunflower seeds.

From somewhere below the courtyard, the noise of a crowd rushed in. Thousands of people were applauding and cheering and yelling their brains out. It could only mean one thing: Kennedy had arrived.

"Five!" came Luther's voice. "Something's happening. Get over here!"

Five shut the door of the car and ran to where Luther was standing at the fence. Below them were rows upon rows of barricades holding back a crowd. A great distance away, Five could see the approaching motorcade—the security car—then the presidential limo with the Harley-Davidson DPD motorcycles flanking it, the cops on them wearing white chin-strapped helmets and sunglasses.

And farther even than that, a thin figure stood on the side of the turning road, cloaked in black and holding an umbrella that covered his face . . .

"Over there!" cried Luther, pointing at the man. "That's Dad! What do we do?"

But Five had already turned his attention elsewhere. Down below, another person was racing at breakneck speed across the grassy knoll—toward the Umbrella-Man.

"Shit," said Five. "Diego!"

The presidential limo began to turn around the bend. The crowd erupted into applause. Five heard them and Diego did, too. He knew what it meant: now or never. He picked up speed, sprinted the last dozen meters, and tackled the man with the umbrella to the ground.

But something was wrong.

A shot rang out.

The Umbrella-Man had not killed the President—someone else had . . .

There were screams and bewildered shouts from below. Now the presidential limo had taken off, speeding toward the Triple Underpass, the man inside bleeding from a wound that would not heal. The security car had pulled up on the far side of Elm Street near Dealey Plaza. The cops on the motorcycles were spurred into action.

Five stepped away from the fence.

"Look around, Luther. See anything suspicious?"

Luther looked around obligingly. "No," he replied, feeling as though there was something he was supposed to point out. "Seems—er, like what was supposed to happen, right?"