Machine-gun fire broke out from all directions. There was a terrific explosion, and a pack of Humvees roared into the hangar.
The smile vanished from Balfour’s face. Cowering, he ran to a stack of crates draped with webbed netting and fell against them.
Jonathan hit the ground and crawled toward the safety of the nearest stack of crates. Looking to his left, he saw the word “Semtex” stenciled ten centimeters away.
The exchange of gunfire devolved into a pitched battle. Balfour’s men, along with Mr. Singh and Sultan Haq, held position at one end of the hangar, taking cover behind their vehicles. Soldiers in assault gear advanced from among the crates of guns and ammunition at the other end. Jonathan was caught in between.
A grenade sailed over his head and rolled toward Sultan Haq. One of Balfour’s guards jumped on it, his body lifting into the air a second later, the blast inaudible in the cacophonous gunfire. Another grenade followed. Haq caught it on the bounce and threw it back. But he did not throw it at the attacking troops. Instead, he turned toward the stack of crates where Balfour had sought protection and lobbed it expertly into its center. Jonathan read the words “. 30 caliber ammunition” stenciled on an exposed section of pine. The grenade bounced once, and Balfour scrambled to pick it up, fumbling with the ovoid canister. Jonathan watched as he cocked his arm to throw it. The grenade exploded, Balfour disappearing momentarily inside a blossom of orange and black.
The explosion died and he was still standing, half his arm obliterated, bone and muscle dangling, his face sheared off by the force of the blast. Dazed, he spun and saw Jonathan looking at him. His one eye opened wider, as if he were confused at how this might have come to pass. Another grenade landed in the webbing. There was an explosion, and the. 30 caliber rounds began to cook off. Balfour’s body jerked as the bullets tore into his body, hurling him to the floor.
The hangar shuddered. Overhead, the lights flickered.
The assault troops pulled back, and Jonathan spotted an American flag sewn to one man’s shoulder. It had to be Connor who’d sent them, but how had he known the site of the exchange when Jonathan himself hadn’t?
Nearby a fire broke out among the crates. In seconds, flames were shooting into the rafters. More ammunition began to cook off. Tracers arced above his head. Explosions grew more frequent. Shrapnel whizzed through the air like bottle flies. A girder broke from the ceiling and fell to the floor, crushing a soldier.
Desperate to escape, Jonathan lifted his head and peered around him. Ten meters away, Haq stole the warhead off the table and carried it to the flatbed of a jeep. Jonathan rose to a knee. A bullet slammed into a crate above his shoulder and he fell back to the floor, watching as Haq closed the tailgate and ran to the passenger seat. A man climbed into the driver’s seat, was shot, fell, and was replaced by another.
“Get him!” Jonathan waved his arms and pointed at Haq, but his voice was a whisper among the murderous symphony. Fed up, he climbed to his feet and dashed across the floor toward the truck. Bullets sizzled past, one shaving off the top of his ear, upsetting his balance and toppling him to the ground. He pushed himself up. “Haq!”
A body slammed into him, knocking him to the cement floor, winded.
Mr. Singh threw himself on top of him, rammed a pistol into his jaw, and pulled the trigger. The gun fired empty. Jonathan kneed him in the groin and heaved him off. Jumping to his feet, he managed one step before Singh grabbed his ankle and dropped him. In place of his pistol, the Sikh held the long curved kukri in his hand. He slashed, but the blade missed Jonathan’s calf and struck the floor. Jonathan kicked at him, striking his cheeks, knocking his turban loose. Another blow landed squarely on his nose, breaking it, and a third connected with his chin.
Singh shook off the blows, matted braids of hair falling about his face, blood streaming from his nose. Rising to his feet, he held the blade high, a killing blow. In vain Jonathan threw up an arm to protect himself. But the blade did not fall. Singh shuddered time and time again, geysers of blood and fabric erupting from his chest. The Sikh fell to his side, his chest rising spasmodically.
A soldier pulled Jonathan behind a crate and helped him sit up.
“Get him,” said Jonathan, disoriented, gesturing toward the jeep. “Get Haq! He has the warhead!”
“He can’t go anywhere,” the soldier shouted in Jonathan’s face. “The place is sealed tight as a drum.”
A female voice. So familiar. “Emma?”
The soldier pulled the black balaclava off her face. “Are you okay?”
Jonathan looked into the woman’s face. Blue eyes, not green. Hair a raven’s black. “Danni? You’re here?”
“I tried to alert you last night.”
Jonathan blinked, recalling the assault on Balfour’s estate. “Connor sent you?”
“No,” she said. “I came on my own. This morning I found out he’d been trying to reach me ever since you left. He hooked me up with Delta. My orders were to keep an eye out for you and make sure none of the good guys took you out by accident.”
“But Haq,” said Jonathan rolling to one side, seeking out the jeep, no longer seeing it.
A monstrous blast rocked the foundations of the hangar. Giant pan lights fell from the ceiling. A second rafter broke loose, crashing to the floor.
“We have to get out of here,” said Danni. “Before the whole place goes up.”
Before he could protest, she grabbed his collar and hauled him to his feet. Together they ran back through the canyon of crates and boxes until they emerged into the daylight, coughing and sputtering.
An American officer directed them to an aid truck at the side of the hangar, but Jonathan was still too amped up to worry about himself. “Haq,” he managed, bent double and clearing his throat. “Did you get him? Black jeep… he has it… he has the bomb.”
“Sir, you need water and medical attention.”
Jonathan ignored the offer of assistance, forcing himself to stand upright and confront the officer. “Did you get him?”
“Sir, we’re handling this operation. Right now you need aid. Corpsman! Take this man to the aid truck.”
“I’ll do it,” said Danni.
“Didn’t you hear me?” shouted Jonathan. “He’s a got a WMD. I saw it-it’s in there!”
“Get him out of here! Now!”
“Cool it,” said Danni, restraining Jonathan. “There are over a hundred troops here. They’ve got the perimeter sealed. Haq isn’t going anywhere.”
Danni guided Jonathan around the side of the hangar to a spot fifty meters across the tarmac where two Humvees and a half-ton truck were parked. A Pakistani soldier offered them water and tea and energy bars.
“Who are they?” Jonathan asked, eyes glued to the hangar doors. “Where did they come from?”
“Delta Force and regular Pakistani army,” said Danni.
“How did they know where to be?”
“The information you forwarded to Connor. He contacted U.S. Central Command and they called out Delta.”
“The information I forwarded?”
“The files started coming through soon after my diversion. It was smart of you to take advantage of it to break into Balfour’s office.”
“And Connor told you all this?”
“He said he’d gotten the files you sent from Balfour’s. He called them a goldmine.”
“But I didn’t…”
Jonathan left his words unsaid. His world had momentarily divided into parallel tracks. While one part of his mind replayed the events in Balfour’s office last night, another watched in fearful surprise as a dozen soldiers ran out of the hangar en masse, heads bowed, followed by a Humvee reversing at full speed. At the same moment that Jonathan recalled Emma holding the flash drive in her open palm and realized that it could only have been she who had sent Connor the information, he spotted the obdurate American officer at the head of the fleeing soldiers, waving his arms furiously and shouting, “Get back!”