Five feet to the left side of those shoes-lying on the ground just beyond the rim of the right wheel well-was what Caine had been hoping to find: the pistol formerly carried by the man Opal had crushed in the door. Caine grabbed the weapon, realizing that, if he were seen doing so, he was now probably living the last few seconds of his life.
But the man in the cheap shoes was exiting the rear passenger door more cautiously, had evidently not yet moved to a point where he could see around his own door to the ground near the front of the vehicle.
Caine wasn’t sure of the make of the weapon-maybe an older Sig Sauer-but it was clearly chambered for caseless ammunition: there was no ejection port.
The man’s feet moved swiftly forward alongside the vehicle, drew abreast of the wheel well, crept more cautiously as they neared the front bumper. One more step and he’d discover that the dim figure that had thrown the crowbar at him was no longer hidden there. An explosion-muffled by distance-made him pause a moment.
Caine checked the safety: off. The weapon was cocked. Steadying it with two hands, he aimed the pistol at a point just beyond the front right tire.
The man’s cheap shoes tensed, flexed-and then he jumped around the front fender of the vehicle, evidently in a crouch. This move put his feet and ankles in the pistol’s gunsights: Caine squeezed the trigger and kept squeezing.
Other than the expected roar of the gun, the first split second was utterly surreaclass="underline" there was a misty blast of blood from the ankle only three feet in front of Caine, flying specks of flesh and bone-and no other sound or movement. Then, as the pistol barked and jumped again, a stunned animal howl harmonized with it, and the ankle and foot buckled. More of the man appeared, falling into the gunsights. Caine kept firing, one part of him stunned by what he was doing, the other part coolly wondering how many rounds were in the weapon.
The bullets made a nasty, meat-ripping sound: the man struggled to rise-another bullet hit him. He flinched-another bullet-then quaked-another bullet-and collapsed into stillness. One last bullet.
A thump to the left; Caine rolled to face in that direction, and found a sunglassed man-the driver? — staring straight at him, right cheek flush against the cracked macadam. However, he was also lying with the back of his jacket facing Caine-meaning that his head was apparently on backwards. His neck bulged hideously, twisted: Opal’s handiwork.
Link up with her, gather weapons, look for radios. Then, suppress-or take out-the next carload of them.
Caine rolled toward the man with the rear-facing head, squirmed out over him and a clutch of tangled PVC pipes. No sign of Opal. Damn. Maybe she’s already moved on to engage-
Caine heard motion behind him, turned, saw his death in the black hole of a gun muzzle that was coming around the front of the vehicle, almost trained on him. He began bringing his own weapon around toward the new gunman, who had evidently exited the back of the car from the same side as the one with the cheap shoes. And Caine knew: I won’t make it; he’s going to get me.
The unwinking black pupil of the pistol’s barrel was staring straight through Caine’s retina into his brain-when the gunman’s head snapped over suddenly. A slight puff of red vapor next to his uphill temple seemed to push his entire head in the downslope direction-and a lateral jet of blood erupted from that side. The pistol twisted up and away with his fall, firing into the air, responding to a death reflex in the trigger finger.
Who saved me? Was it-?
“Opal?”
Footsteps-too heavy-came around the front of the vehicle: Downing, at a crouch, gun in hand.
“Wha-?”
“Are you hurt?”
Footsteps, softer, behind: “He’d better not be.”
Caine turned, smiled to see Opal’s smile-and noted the wide, worried eyes that quickly recovered-and cut into Downing. “What the hell is going on here?”
“As if I know?” Downing helped Caine to his feet. “What I do know is that we have to leave here-now.”
Caine shook him off, gun in both hands again. “There was a second vehicle-”
Downing jerked his head back downslope. “They went over the side-courtesy of your landslide of tubing, from what I saw.”
Opal snorted. “Yeah? And what the hell are you doing here anyway?”
“Oh, well, I beg your pardon, Captain: I thought my timing and arrival were both rather serendipitous.”
“Yeah-maybe a little too serendipitous?”
“Are they? Have you stopped to think that you both left the stadium without one of these?” He yanked off a collarcom. “And that was my fault, damn it, because I was supposed to give one to each of you, just in case you got into any trouble and needed to call.”
“So you followed us.”
“Yes, of course: is that a crime? So I ran into the roadblock to the main overlook. Closer scrutiny, and a quick call to our local contacts, revealed that it was a sham. From that point, it became obvious where you must have been sent, and what was going to happen when you got here. I’m just sorry I didn’t arrive sooner.”
“Yeah, well-we did all right on our own.” Hands on hips as she moved toward the front of the first vehicle, Opal blew sweaty bangs out of her eyes and stalked past Downing.
Caine smiled at her as she passed. “‘We’ weren’t so great, but she was outstanding.”
Opal looked back over her shoulder-face smudged, hair awry, primal, compelling-and then stared down at the much-shot body in front of the car and the tangle of tubing all around them. “Oh, I don’t know: seems like you held up your end.”
Downing looked from her to Caine and back again. “Well, you are both very welcome: how gracious of you to thank me for my help.”
Caine kept his voice low, controlled. “Downing, we’re only here because of your agenda and actions, so don’t expect any gratitude. Far as I can tell, you were just protecting valuable merchandise. Now, if you say we’ve got to get out of here-”
Downing, stiff-lipped, nodded. “We do. Captain, you police up their weapons and keep watch.” He tossed her his pistol; she caught it-the grip in her palm, finger just outside the guard-with lazy ease. Downing moved around to the rear of the stricken vehicle. “Caine, help me get their bodies back in the car; then go to mine, and bring back the cigarette lighter as soon as it’s hot.”
Caine had never moved a dead body. It was not only as heavy as several sacks of potatoes, but equally unwieldy; grab the torso, and the legs and arms splay and flop around, dragging you off balance. Cinch in the limbs, and you lose leverage on the torso. And always, the loose, bouncing head, the eyes staring, accusing…
As Caine finished shoving a second corpse into the vehicle, Richard-who evinced a surprising facility for the same job-dropped to the ground, scuttled under its rear bumper. Caine trotted back to Downing’s car, opened the door, noting the thick curlicue of black smoke that marked the final resting place of the assassins’ second vehicle. He pushed in the lighter, waited for it to pop out, arrived with it just as Downing was scrabbling back out.
Opal sneered. “Field repairs, Mr. Downing?”
“Preparing to destroy evidence, Captain Patrone. Had to uncap the engine oil pan.”
“Why not just cut the fuel lines and light ’er up?”
“Captain, these are fuel-cell vehicles. So the best accelerant we have is the oil that lubricates the transmission and turbine. Now please step back. Caine, the lighter.”
Caine turned it over to Downing, who leaned forward, tossed it into the thickest part of the oil slick that was spreading from underneath the vehicle in a downhill swath.
As the fire caught and raced back up under the car, Opal frowned. “Shouldn’t we report this to-?”