Martindale cleared his throat uncertainly. “I regret the property damage, Governor.”
Farrell shrugged. “Never mind about the house.” He knelt down beside Nadia and gently took her hand in his. “People are what count in the end, folks. Ultimately, things don’t matter a damn.”
“Indeed,” Martindale said coolly. “I’m sure you’re right.” He looked at the older McLanahan and at Brad. “In the meantime, the three of us need to be moving. If word of this… incident… isn’t already flashing across the Internet and up the chain of command to President Barbeau, it will be soon enough. Before the military and the FBI descend en masse here, it would be best if we were long gone.”
“What about Whack?” Brad heard himself snap. “And Nadia?”
“I’m sure the governor’s security detail will search for Colonel Macomber. If he’s still alive, they will take good care of him,” Martindale said soothingly. “As for Major Rozek, if she lives, she should be safe enough in a hospital… under the governor’s protection.”
Farrell nodded. “You can rest easy on that score, Captain McLanahan,” he assured Brad. “No one, especially not some fed, is going to mess with her on Texas soil. I promise you that.”
“I’m not leaving,” a firm, matter-of-fact voice said. It was Patrick McLanahan. He stared hard at Martindale. “We’ve been running from Stacy Anne Barbeau for far too long. It’s high time we stopped hiding out and took a stand. The American people need to know what she’s done… and what she’s failed to do.”
Martindale snorted. “And just what overoptimistic impulse leads you to conclude that Barbeau will ever give us that chance, General? Before we can say boo, she’ll have her goons drag us off to some black site — about as far away from the media as the back side of the moon.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Farrell said with a sudden flash of teeth in the darkness. “Y’all may have forgotten… but those Russians were trying to kill me. Which makes this a matter for the State of Texas, not the federal government.”
Martindale stirred. “I suspect the president will strongly dispute your jurisdiction, Governor.”
Farrell shrugged again. “Sure she will,” he agreed. “But it’ll make a real dandy court case, won’t it? And it would be one hell of a media draw… especially coming smack-dab in the middle of a hotly contested presidential campaign.”
Despite his sadness and anxiety for Nadia, Brad felt a sudden urge to laugh at the bemused expression on Martindale’s face. It appeared that the master manipulator might finally have met his match—
The staccato chatter of submachine guns rang out, echoing off the high ground to the south.
Brad spun toward the sound of the firing and darted off at full speed, slowing down only long enough to scoop an object off the ground with his CID’s still-working left hand.
Nikolai Dobrynin frowned toward the Farrell ranch. The sound of firing from over those hills had ended several minutes ago. So where were Baryshev and his damned KVMs? The longer they delayed here, the more likely they would be to run into American law enforcement or military roadblocks on the roads back to San Antonio and then farther south toward the U.S.-Mexican border. “Specter Lead, this is Checkmate Two,” he said into his throat mike. “Do you read me? Over.”
There was no reply. Only the hiss of static over an empty frequency.
“What kind of game are those bloodthirsty maniacs playing now?” he groused to Pavel Larionov.
The bigger man shrugged. “It’s probably better if we don’t know,” he advised. “If we want to be able to sleep tonight, that is.”
Dobrynin winced. That much was probably true, he decided. He’d already had nightmares about the blood and scraps of human flesh coating Baryshev’s war robot after that attack out in California. He tapped Larionov on the shoulder. “Let’s pull the rest of our guys in, Pavel. I want to get on the road as soon as the colonel and the others return.”
The other man nodded. He turned his head toward where the other three former Spetsnaz soldiers were posted, and spoke briefly into his own mike — using their team’s own secure channel. One after another, Yumashev, Popov, and Mitkin rose from their concealed firing positions along the dirt road and trotted back toward the three parked big rigs. Finished, Larionov asked, “What about the captain?”
Dobrynin sighed. “If Kirill’s smart, he’ll hold tight. He’s got a good position. Once the Americans make their initial sweep, he might be able to get clear and make it out on his own.”
The big man snorted. “You really believe that bullshit, sir?”
“Not really,” Dobrynin admitted. “But let’s face it. The captain was fucked as soon as Moscow sent that premature attack order.” He shook his head. “We just have to hope that he keeps his mouth shut long enough for the rest of us to escape—”
Larionov’s head, hit by a 7.62mm bullet, exploded in Dobrynin’s face — spraying him with lacerating fragments of bone and teeth. The big man went down in a boneless heap, like a puppet with all its strings cut.
For a split second, Dobrynin stared down at the dead man in openmouthed astonishment. Then he recovered. “Sniper!” he yelled, diving for the ground.
Along the road, Mitkin and Yumashev reacted fast, hitting the dirt and rolling into a shallow ditch beside the road. Popov was slower. Fatally so. A second silenced rifle shot dropped him in his tracks.
“Suppressive fire!” Dobrynin shouted. “At the hillside across the road!”
They opened up with their HK7s, firing short bursts toward the opposite slope — carefully directing their shots at the most likely spots where the unseen sniper could be hiding. Dust, bits of torn brush, and sparks from ricochets drifted downwind.
“Cease fire!” Dobrynin called. “Cease fire!”
Silence descended across the darkened stretch of Texas country road.
“Did we get him?” he heard Mitkin ask.
Another rifle bullet tore up off the dirt beside Dobrynin’s face. Frantically, he rolled away and scrambled into cover behind a big-rig truck tire. “Unfortunately, not,” he said dryly. He grimaced. They were pinned down. Advancing into the open against that concealed rifleman would be suicide. The same thing applied to trying to drive away down the road in their trucks. No, he thought angrily, they were stuck here until Baryshev’s KVMs returned, pinpointed the solitary sniper who’d ambushed them, and blew him away. “Where the hell are those robots?” he wondered aloud.
“Right here,” he heard an ice-cold electronic voice reply.
Dobrynin whipped around in time to see a massive shape emerge out of the darkness. Relieved, he stood up, careful to keep the tractor-trailer between him and the rifleman who’d killed Larionov and Povov. “It’s about fucking time,” he growled… and then felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when the robot moved closer. It was taller than the KVMs, with a six-sided head. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered. “You’re not one of ours, are you?”
The Iron Wolf war machine shook its head. “No, I’m not.” It tossed an object onto the ground. Dobrynin stared down in horror at the smooth, featureless ovoid that rolled up against his boots. “That’s what’s left of your robots,” the CID said harshly. “Now it’s your turn. Surrender. Or die. It’s your call.”
Numbly, Dobrynin tossed his submachine gun aside and raised his hands. He heard the clatter of weapons hitting the ground as Yumashev and Mitkin followed his example.