“Nate, for God’s sake, don’t shoot the bomb tech!” yelled Mitchell, trying to get his friend’s attention.
Leaning over, Jackson grabbed onto the larger ATV’s roll bar and hauled himself over onto the speeding ATV. The last of Chang’s mercenaries, a broad-shouldered red-haired man sitting beside the driver, lunged at Jackson, trying to grab him by the waist. Jackson had anticipated the move and brought his hands down onto the man’s back. With a loud grunt, the guard’s legs buckled and he dropped back in his seat. Trying to finish him off, Jackson swung at the man’s head. However, the red-haired man pulled his head back at the last second and scrambled over his seat, trying to get his hands on Jackson. The driver, seeing the melee going on beside him, tried to grab his holstered pistol. His momentary lapse of attention caused the ATV to crash into the side of the tunnel, sending both Jackson and his attacker tumbling over the side of the ATV and onto the hard, rock-strewn floor of the tunnel.
Mitchell watched in dismay as Jackson and the thug rolled past him, locked in a struggle to the death. With one hard tug of his legs, Mitchell heard the last gasp of air escape from his adversary’s shattered nose. Reaching down with his free hand, Mitchell grabbed the dead man’s shirt collar and dragged him closer. Immediately Mitchell started to rummage through the pockets on the man’s shirt, desperately looking for the key to the restraint.
The tunnel grew dark as Mitchell’s ATV sped away. The only light now was from the overturned four-wheeler that Jackson had abandoned further down the mine, casting eerily long shadows as Jackson and his assailant desperately grappled with one another. Fists and elbows flew as both men tried to cripple the other; it was like a gladiatorial fight to the death. Struggling to free a hand, the guard flung his hand towards Jackson’s face, his fingers clawing for his eyes. Pulling his head back as far as he could, Jackson waited until the man’s hand was as close as it would get. Reaching over with his mouth, Jackson bit down hard on the thug’s hand and tasted blood. With a howl of pain, the goon pulled his hand free. Letting go of Jackson, he recoiled and hurriedly scrambled to his feet. Jackson, displaying unexpected agility for a large man, jumped up on his feet. Stepping back out of Jackson’s reach, the red-haired goon pulled a six-inch blade from his belt that, in the light of the tunnel, gleamed menacingly. With a loud snarl on his lips, the man stepped forward and thrust the blade towards Jackson’s exposed midsection. The man may have had a weapon, but Jackson had years of experience and training on his side. Turning on his heels, Jackson shot out his right hand and grabbed the thug’s extended hand in a vicelike grip, squeezing it as hard as he could. The man yelped in agonizing pain as Jackson turned the man’s arm over, snapping his wrist. A second later, the knife dropped to the dirt. With a swift thrust of his free hand, Jackson brought his large fist straight down on the man’s jaw, knocking him to the ground, unconscious.
Mitchell’s hand felt something cold and metallic…yes. Wrapping his fingers around it, Mitchell pulled out the keys to his restraint from the dead mercenary’s shirt pocket. As quickly as he could, Mitchell opened the cuff. His bloody wrist ached in pain, but that was not going to slow him down, not now. Reaching over, Mitchell grabbed the dead man’s assault rifle, pushed the dead body off the trailer, and jumped over onto the fast-moving ATV. The only passengers remaining on board were the driver and the bomb technician, both of whom were in no position to stop Mitchell. Slamming the butt of his rifle down hard into the side of the technician’s head, Mitchell watched him slump over before he jammed the cold muzzle of his weapon into the back of the driver’s neck.
“Stop this vehicle, now!” said Mitchell firmly.
The vehicle quickly slowed and came to a halt.
Mitchell ordered the driver to place his hands on his head and slowly climb out of the vehicle. The driver, his eyes wide and scared, did as he was told. Mitchell smiled at the guard just before butt-stroking the man in the head with his rifle. The guard flew straight back on to the rocky floor like a dropped sack of potatoes.
Mitchell had just finished hog-tying the guard when Jackson drove up on his four-wheeler with a broad grin on his face.
“Where’s your guy?” asked Mitchell.
Jackson pointed over his shoulder. “He’s back there looking as pretty as yours,” replied Jackson, looking at the tied-up guard lying face down on the ground.
Mitchell walked over and grabbed his comrade by the arm. “Nate, I need you to stay here and get that specialist over there to disarm the nuke,” said Mitchell, nodding towards the woozy technician.
“What if he doesn’t want to help?”
“Then kill him and try to disarm it yourself,” Mitchell said loud enough that the unsteady technician could hear.
“I help, I help, just don’t shoot me,” the terrified technician said meekly, with a strong Russian accent.
“Ok then, come here and no screwing around,” said Mitchell, pointing his weapon at the battered man.
“Jesus, Ryan, what the hell is going on?” asked Jackson. “Why the hell do these people have a couple of nukes?”
Mitchell turned and looked back down the darkened tunnel. The other bomb would soon be in place. “Sorry, Nate, there’s just no time to explain right now. You have to disarm this bomb, or millions of people will die.” Mitchell climbed onto Jackson’s borrowed four-wheeled ATV. “I have to stop the other bomb from being armed.”
Jackson nodded, reached behind his back, and handed Mitchell a Glock 9mm pistol. “You might need this,” he said.
Mitchell thanked Jackson, took the pistol, revved up the ATV’s engine, and sped off down the long dark tunnel.
Jackson watched his friend disappear from view. Turning his attention to the terrified Russian engineer, Jackson walked over to the man, easily towering over him. “How long to disarm this mother?” asked Jackson, looking over at the bomb.
“Uh, three minutes perhaps,” stammered the technician.
“Well, I’ll give you two, before I put a bullet in your head,” said Jackson matter-of-factly.
The man practically tripped over his feet to get to the bomb.
43
The noise from Cardinal’s .50 cal tore through the air. One of the thugs’ vehicles was on fire, after a well-aimed round had torn through its driver, sending the jeep smashing into another parked vehicle. Using what cover they could, Chang’s men began to advance towards the tower overlooking the camp. Neither side was backing down from the fight; everyone there knew that it was a fight to the finish.
Chang lowered his binoculars and swore. At the rate his men were taking casualties, it would not be long before he did not have enough men to storm the tower. If more attackers were to arrive, then Chang knew it would all be over. As far as he could tell, it was only a few well-armed men firing at his men from the old Martello tower. Even the anti-tank rockets were proving useless against the thick walls of the tower, exploding harmlessly on the hard exterior. Although the snow-covered ground was littered with the bodies of more than a dozen of his men, Chang was still confident that his well-trained team could take the tower if they could only get close enough. The area from the camp to the ridge where the tower stood was just too open. His men would not make it half the distance to the rocks before being picked off one by one. Looking about, he searched for a way to even the odds. A moment later Chang saw the answer to his prayers. With a loud whistle, he pointed towards a large yellow tractor. A quick wave by one of his men let Chang know that he knew what to do. Grinning as he looked up at the tower, Chang wondered just who it was who had managed to screw up the Romanovs’ plan. If circumstances had been different, he might have even offered them a job; they were that good.