"Can't do that, Chucky!"
"Don't call me Chucky!"
They reached sight of the main door into ballistics, level 4, then peeked around the corner. Similar to the zones above, the level was cavernous, like a stadium with a stone roof, and lined with engine test stands and ancient-looking tractors and treads for moving the heavy motors. Fisher raised his binoculars and saw that Zahm was at the far end of the zone with two men. They were near the mouth of the center blast funnel, near the last collection of Anvil cases. He told Gillespie to keep her eyes sharp for Ames. He was in there somewhere, and, she figured, had probably been double-crossed by Zahm, which was why he was still around and possibly about to exact his revenge on the self-appointed auctioneer as well as his best buddies in Third Echelon.
She and Fisher moved past the door and crept over to the nearest workbench. She took point and immediately found a covering position, while he eased in beside her. She got her first look at Zahm, a tall and stocky character with a thick shock of wavy hair. He was probably about Fisher's age, though his hair was suspiciously devoid of gray. He wore a dark green turtleneck with suede patches on the shoulders.
Zahm lifted his voice. "Give it up, Ames! You won't get 'em open!"
"Don't want to!" Ames answered, his voice emanating from somewhere above.
"What's he doing?" she whispered to Fisher.
"Don't know."
The others checked in over the headset. Noboru had heard the remaining guys moving around, trying to call the elevator. Fisher told him to hold position and that they had Zahm and what was left of the arsenal. This wasn't exactly the original plan, but they'd take it. Hansen would clear weapons and electronics, ensuring no surprise attacks for their escape; then he would rally back at Noboru's position. Valentina would do likewise.
With that, Fisher gestured to Gillespie, and they hustled off, working their way between the shelves and equipment, the vehicles and engine parts, keeping low and tight to the corners, advancing fluidly like two lethal components controlled by a single brain.
The strangest sensation washed over Gillespie, and she found it hard, for a moment, to concentrate. There was something incredibly sexy, even erotic, about darting through the shadows with him, the threat of being caught reinforced by every footfall. When they paused at the next bench, she just looked at him, in awe, and he looked at her: What? She just shuddered and mouthed, "I'm okay."
No, Sam, I could never have shot you. Who was I kidding?
They came within a hundred yards of Zahm and his two men. He gave her the hand signal to take the man on the left. She nodded. Set up. Took aim. The Groza felt perfect in her hands. Groza means "thunder." Oh, yeah, she was about to deliver her thunder. . . .
They would do it just like training. She waited for his shot. The instant she heard it, she squeezed the trigger. Her target could not react in time.
Both of Zahm's men dropped. One, two. Textbook head shots.
The man himself spun away, but Fisher was already running toward him. "Hi, Chuck."
Gillespie dropped in beside Fisher.
Zahm whirled to face them, a 9mm semiautomatic clutched in his right hand. He looked at Fisher, then at Gillespie, and she could almost hear the ticking of his thoughts: If I shoot Fisher, then the woman kills me.
You can bet on it,Gillespie thought.
Fisher ordered Zahm to lose the gun.
Zahm set down his weapon. "Fisher," he cried, as though to a long-lost friend.
Fisher shot Gillespie a look, then motioned her to the exhaust vents ahead to search for Ames. She rushed forward, past Zahm, and began her search, while behind her, the conversation continued:
"You just couldn't sit still, could you?" Fisher asked. "Couldn't have stayed in Portugal, enjoyed your villa and your mojitos and your boat."
"Boring. Too damned boring."
"Then you're going to hate prison."
"You can put me in, but you can't keep me there."
From somewhere in the space above, Ames yelled, "You're both wrong!"
"He's not in here," Fisher called to her. "The echo's wrong. He's above us--ballistics, second level. He's yelling down the exhaust shaft."
Gillespie glanced up into the exhaust shaft, but she couldn't see a thing. She switched on her flashlight, aimed it up, and still nothing but piping covered in a thick layer of carbon.
Fisher was suddenly on the radio to Hansen: "Move now, back to the ramp. All of you get topside as fast as you can."
"What's going on?" Gillespie asked.
"Do it. Blast your way through whoever's up there, but don't slow down."
"Roger."
Gillespie was about to question Fisher when Ames shouted again: "Okay, Chucky, here it comes. . . ."
Fisher screamed to her, "We're leaving. Move!"
She was still confused but wouldn't argue and began jogging back to him.
From the far end of the space came a crash. She turned back to see an Anvil case about the size of a footlocker bounce off the middle exhaust funnel and slam into the wall behind it.
Zahm craned his neck and stared at the case. "Son of a bitch! Ames!"
A second case dropped, this one so big that Ames must've used all his might to push it over the side. It was as large as a gun safe, Gillespie guessed. It struck the floor so hard that it broke open. Dozens of cylindrical objects spilled out and rolled across the concrete. And yet another case dropped. Then another, while Zahm continued shouting at the top of his lungs. He even screamed for Fisher to go up there and shoot the bastard.
Ames shouted, "Missed one. Here it comes!"
Gillespie stole a look over her shoulder at the exhaust vent, just as a white object about the size of a brick plummeted out of sight to the bottom of the tube.
"Aw, bloody hell," cried Zahm.
Gillespie shouted to Fisher, "What?"
He had two words for her. "Semtex! Run!"
42
GILLESPIE'Slegs were burning as she and Fisher retreated at full tilt toward the door at the far end of the zone. They were, Gillespie estimated, about sixty or seventy feet from the exit when the Semtex detonated.
A slightly muffled boom came first, followed by a single echo; then through that hollow ringing came several more explosions, grenades perhaps, and, finally, a deafening explosion that stole the air from her lungs and threatened to burst her eardrums.
Not two seconds later, the shock wave swept her into the air and sent her hurtling, end over end, like a Barbie doll flung by an angry four-year-old. The floor and ceiling spun, and there was utter disorientation until she thought she whacked against the door and suddenly dropped, as though someone had thrown the GRAVITY ON switch. She hit the floor, facedown. Felt her shoulder pop. Her arms and legs continued to burn.
She tried to look up, but a wave of nausea took hold, the room still spinning. Was that Fisher calling her name? Her shoulder throbbed now. She thought she could move her legs despite the fire.
What was that sound? Like Niagara Falls . . .
Finally, she glanced at the far end of the zone. The entire back wall was gone, and the concrete blast funnels now lay in mountains of rubble. In their place was a massive hole like the business end of a huge, fully opened fire hose. Car-sized pieces of rock were already being swept aside by the jetting water and unstoppable current.