The man yowled and raised his hands as Goldfarb dove out of the way. Connors immediately regained enough of his thoughts and reflexes to slash downward with the knife. The razor-sharp blade ripped open the sleeve of Goldfarb’s jacket but did not cut the skin.
Connors lunged again blindly, and Goldfarb smashed into the microfilm reader, upsetting the table and knocking the machine over with a loud crash. The militia man bellowed, clawing at his scalded eyes. Goldfarb ripped his handgun from the shoulder holster, thrusting it close to Bryce Connors. “Freeze!”
Several of the readers and students in the library cried out; a few ran for the exit but most stared, captivated by the tableau. At the checkout counter, the librarians stepped back, wide-eyed.
Connors gripped his face and moaned loudly as Goldfarb pressed closer, holding the handgun steady. “My eyes!”
Goldfarb had just enough time for a flicker of suspicion — the coffee hadn’t been that hot — but he was unprepared for the lashing cowboy boot that swept at his leg with the force of a wrecking ball. The stone-hard heel caught him directly on the shin and Goldfarb shouted his pain as he fell over like a toppled matchstick.
Connors, his eyes unharmed after all, bolted.
Goldfarb howled and then limped after the man as Connors dashed between two long bookshelves in the stacks. Every step sent a cannonball of pain up his leg.
He stepped around one of the shelves, ducking as he scanned down the long corridor of books. He saw Connors for just an instant as the militia man whirled, gripping a genuine cowboy-style Colt revolver he had pulled from the pocket of his khaki jacket. The man fired twice, and the gunshots sounded like explosions in the library. A loud ricochet struck the metal shelves within a foot of Goldfarb’s head, and the other bullet struck the books. He toppled backward out of the way.
The people in the library screamed and finally began to run for the exits.
“Should’ve known he’d come prepared with more than just a little knife,” Goldfarb muttered, then he raised his voice to a shout. “Everyone, listen! I am a Federal Agent. Please evacuate the library. Call for help. 9-1-1. Get backup here right now.” Goldfarb hoped that at least one of the librarians would maintain enough wits to call in the emergency.
He slid around the corner, but Connors had vanished, diving down a side aisle. Where did the burly man think he could go? Goldfarb limped down the stacks as quietly as he could, his handgun drawn. His gaze flicked from side to side, waiting for motion.
He heard people running toward the exits, then a librarian shouted. “The police and the FBI are on their way with full backup. They’ll be here in less than two minutes.” No backup could arrive so quickly, but Goldfarb suspected the woman had used that as a ploy, a weapon to make Connors panic. He hoped it might work.
Goldfarb could not respond, because that would give away his position. He crept along, then slid to the next section of shelves, one aisle at a time. He heard no sound, no one moving along the line of books. The fluorescent lights overhead cast murky shadows.
His heart pounding, his breath ragged, he glanced from side to side. His Beretta extended, he turned to the right, praying that Connors hadn’t doubled back, wasn’t slipping around behind him —
Then suddenly to his left a section of books tumbled off an upper shelf as Bryce Connors shoved them. Heavy encyclopedias thumped down, raining on Goldfarb’s shoulders — but it was a surprise and a distraction more than an actual injury.
Ignoring the bruises, Goldfarb dashed over to where the militia man had been. Connors whirled, firing once more behind him, but he took no time to aim. Smoldering confetti showered from bullet-damaged books.
Connors dashed into the library’s back offices, and Goldfarb charged after him.
As he passed through the door, his head low and his attention focused, Bryce Connors popped out from the side, rolling a heavy cart full of books, smashing it into Goldfarb like a locomotive. The metal cart tipped over, and Goldfarb sprawled to the floor as more books tumbled around him.
Connors dashed deeper into the offices where three young library assistants worked at repairing books, every one of them wearing earphones plugged into Walkman cassette players. Two wrapped plastic protective coverings over new arrivals while the third keyed in entries in the computer. All three leaped to their feet, confused and astonished, yanking earphones away from their head.
Connors pointed his revolver and fired point blank at the glowing computer screen. The cathode-ray tube exploded like a bomb, a spectacular distraction, and the three assistants dove to the floor for cover, screaming. Sparks and smoke sprayed from the ruined computer.
Goldfarb scrambled to his feet, crawling over the piles of loose books and the metal cart. He slipped and stumbled, trying to regain his balance. “Hold it!” he yelled.
Connors ignored him. He reached the back emergency exit door and crashed through it, setting off fire alarms. Loud bells rang, adding to the chaos. The militia man dove outside into the slice of sunlight.
Goldfarb scrambled across the back room, still in hot pursuit. The three assistant librarians were terrified, picking themselves up. Goldfarb took a second to glance at them. “Are you all right? Did he shoot you? Are you injured?” He saw three stunned faces look at him blankly. All shook their heads.
Goldfarb ran to the still-closing door, crashing his way out. His battered shin stung and burned. He didn’t think the bone was broken, but he could think of various tortures that would have felt more pleasant at the moment.
To his dismay, the rear of the library butted up against a busy parking lot filled with cars and trucks, pedestrians, shoppers. He focused quickly on the pickups, since Bryce Connors had mentioned his truck — but then he saw a dark blue Galaxy 500 roar off down the street, and he knew that the man’s words must have been a decoy.
He felt the energy drain out of him like water, replaced with suffocating dismay. The man responsible for creating the Hoover Dam bomb — a bona fide connection to the Eagle’s Claw — had slipped right through his fingers! Connors would probably ditch the car within the hour.
“Jackson’s never going to let me forget this,” Goldfarb groaned, then used his good leg to kick his heel in frustration against the library wall.
Within moments, far too late of course, he heard sirens approaching in the distance.
CHAPTER 21
The mountain of paperwork in front of him had become a blur in his eyes. Craig shook his head. He had spent the last hour just trying to figure out what the forms signified before he could unravel any discrepancies. But the thought of skimming it all — not to mention understanding it — by Friday seemed an insurmountable task.
“Boy, that stuff must be fascinating,” Paige said, startling him. She stood behind him in the Pit Assembly Area.
“You sure are a welcome sight.” Craig sat up straight, rubbing his sore back. He gave her a warm smile, then glanced at his watch. “Are the Russians still here?”
“Uncle Mike took them back to the Rio and out to dinner. He’s got a meeting in Las Vegas tomorrow morning, so I volunteered to stay and help you for an hour or so, if you’d like.” Paige bent over to glance at the top layer of papers.
Craig sighed in relief. “I’d like that a lot. The pieces are in here somewhere, but I have to let them fall into place.”
Now, without General Ursov and the other Russians eavesdropping, he told her what Jackson had said on the cellular phone about the dead militia man at the Hoover Dam being a former NTS employee.