For a horrible moment, the two of them thrashed about in an awkward tangle of limbs until Inge was able to connect a second time, hitting him in the nose again. Blood flecked the carpet, dark droplets sprayed as Johann twisted around. He was reaching for the gun, he had the gun and was pulling it out. Inge yelled, a wail of defiance and anger and hurt as she kept hammering at the man’s battered face.
The gun clattered free, bouncing across the floor. Johann struck out, knocking Inge clear with a blow that set her head ringing, but she used the momentum, turning to fall into a roll, landing beside the gun and scooping it up.
Johann came to his knees at the same instant, rising, face bloodied, eyes staring, as Inge’s fingers closed about the automatic pistol’s butt, her thumb snapped off the safety, and her finger squeezed the trigger.
Had the terrorist not been carrying the weapon with a round already chambered — always a dangerous practice, Inge knew from her own weapons training with the BKA — she would have been dead, for her opponent was much stronger than she was and would have had no trouble at all taking the pistol away from her.
But instead there was a startling and ear-piercing bang and the pistol leaped in her clenched hands. Blood exploded from the terrorist’s left shoulder, a bright flower that staggered him as he tried to get to his feet. Inge held tight and corrected her aim. The gun barked again, and the back of Johann’s head exploded in a gory spray of pink and red. Adding injury to insult, the bullet had punched its way in through his mangled nose.
Inge rose to her feet, the pistol still trained on the sprawled corpse in front of her. She’d never killed a man before, and the shock, the sheer, numbing realization of what she’d just done was almost overwhelming.
But the gunshot would bring others, and she didn’t want to be found here. Pausing only to tug her bra and blouse back into place — the fabric burned her where it dragged across the tenderness at the tips of her breasts, but she ignored that — she hurried to the door, opened it, and peered out.
An empty passageway. Which way to go? She’d been brought here from the left, so somewhere in that direction was the doorway going outside. A plan was forming, still maddeningly hazy in its details, of hiding herself in the refinery area behind the living quarters. It would take them a while to find her there. Adler had boasted of having thirty-nine men — thirty-eight now, she amended with grim joy — and he couldn’t spare that many just to search for her. Perhaps she could find a way to signal the government forces that must have this platform surrounded by now.
But voices were sounding from the right. Men were coming this way, and at a dead run from the sound of it. Just a little way down the corridor to the right was the intersection with a cross passageway. Almost without thinking, she turned right, then stepped off to the side, out of the main corridor.
Almost immediately, two black-clad men raced by in the main corridor. “This way,” one yelled in German as they passed her hiding place. “In here!” Neither saw her.
If they found Johann’s body, however, there would be more men here almost at once, and they would search and search until they tracked her down. Coolly, she stepped back into the main passageway, glanced right to make sure no more were coming, then brought her pistol up, aiming at the backs of the two running men.
There is no fair in combat, Blake had told her a century or two ago. She opened fire just as they reached the door to the room where Johann’s body was and started to turn the knob. Two shots… three… four… five… Again and again she squeezed the trigger, the gun thundering in the narrow corridor. One of the terrorists staggered back, slamming into the wall opposite the door. The other twisted around, staring into Inge’s eyes with a horrible mix of surprise and pain, but he wasn’t going down… he was still on his feet and he had his own weapon out now, a gleaming black submachine gun that was swinging up and around to aim at Inge’s head.
Then his face was obliterated by a splash of blood, and he hit the floor on his back with a loud thump. A hand touched Inge’s shoulder; still working on instinct, she let go of her pistol with the left hand, caught the wrist, threw her hip into her assailant and sent him spilling across her leg and onto the floor. He was wearing black military-looking garb like the others. She raised her pistol, centering it on his stunned expression…
Another gloved hand reached past her from the right, dropping across the breech of her pistol just as she pulled the trigger. There was a dull snap as the gun’s hammer closed on the glove, right where the webbing between thumb and forefinger would be. Another hand closed over her mouth. Struggling, she tried to bite it but couldn’t penetrate the leather. She tried to fight, tried to throw him off, tried—
“Easy, Inge! Damn it! Easy! It’s Blake!”
Blake!…
He released her mouth and she turned, looking up into his face. It was Blake! It was!
It took a blurred moment to sort out what had just happened, so fast had things taken place. She’d shot one of the terrorists, but the bullets hadn’t penetrated the Kevlar armor the other was wearing; Blake had killed the man with a burst from his silenced submachine gun, while the other SEAL had grabbed her shoulder, probably to pull her out of the way. She’d thrown him and come that close to putting a bullet between the SEAL’s eyes.
Except that Blake had been there, just in time.
“Oh Gott! How?… ”
“Never mind. Are you all right?”
She felt like she was going to collapse right there on the floor if he let go of her arms, but jerkily she nodded. “I–I’m fine.”
“We heard you scream.”
“They… never mind. It’s okay. I’m okay, really. My God, Blake… what are you doing here?” Then realization dawned. “It’s a takedown?”
“The beginning of one. Our side needs intelligence. That’s why we’re here.”
“One of them told me he had thirty-nine people here,” Inge said. “On the platform and on what he called his fleet. With him, that’s forty.” She looked at the two bodies sprawled in the passageway. “I guess that makes thirty-seven.”
“Well done, Inge! Heinrich Adler?”
“One of them called him Herr Adler, yes.”
“Okay. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Murdock looked at the other SEAL. “Did she hurt you, Razor?”
“Lucky throw,” the SEAL muttered, but he was grinning. “I like the lady’s style, L-T.”
“Me too.”
“Razor? I nearly shot you. I’m sorry… ”
“Don’t sweat it, ma’am. I’d only’ve gotten pissed off if you’d actually shot me. Y’know, L-T? I think we oughta make her an honorary SEAL.”
“Maybe later. C’mon. Let’s move out.”
“Blake, wait!” she said. “What about the bodies? And there’s another one in that room.”
“Leave ’em,” Murdock said. “By now, everybody on this platform has heard gunfire, and a check will show those men missing. If we leave the bodies, though, they might think that all they have to contend with is one very wild escaped prisoner… not a bunch of SEALs.”
“SEALs always eat their kills,” Razor explained quietly. “We’re very neat and tidy that way.”
Quickly, they led her down a side passageway, deeper into the platform’s living quarters.
“Gunfire!” the frantic voice said over the telephone. “Gunfire on level five! Three men are down!”
“Where?” Adler snapped. But he knew what the answer would be.