He checked his watch again. Three minutes. The pistol in his waistband jammed the cut on his stomach. He had a shell in the chamber, and he knew what he had to do—aim, click off the safety, hold his breath, squeeze the trigger. The prospect of shooting someone made him physically ill, but it wouldn’t stop him.
His squirt gun lay beside him, reeking of gasoline. He gave it another shake to make certain the fuel hadn’t leaked, then crossed his fingers that the internal workings hadn’t melted. The test gun had still worked after forty-five minutes. Amazingly, it had only been twenty minutes since they’d left the McDonald’s parking lot, maybe ten or twelve since they’d filled the other squirt guns and started across the wall.
He took a deep breath and listened. He’d made it to the middle of the estate without hearing a sound except the wind keening in the trees and the rumble of the approaching storm. Biddle’s mansion was a little over a hundred yards to his right, and he wondered if Biddle was sitting in his den right now, sipping a brandy. He was even starting to wonder whether Maggie was wrong and the cottages were empty when he saw the headlights.
The vehicle came fast, its engine racing, its beams knifing through the ground mist. At the fork in the drive, it swerved toward the cottages, and Brent pressed down into the wood chips. The car momentarily slid off the blacktop as if the driver was panicked. Was it Biddle’s security or someone coming to warn the terrorists? The car disappeared behind the trees, and a second later he heard its brakes chatter as it squealed to a halt. Its doors opened and then thumped shut.
Brent checked his watch. Ninety seconds. Ahead in the darkness a voice rose momentarily above the wind. The speaker was invisible, the words indistinct, but Brent thought he caught a heavy accent.
His heart thumped as he recalled the face of the man who’d tried to kill him in the garage. Seconds ticked by. He concentrated, listening for every sound. Momentarily he thought he heard footsteps nearby. He gazed into the darkness but saw nothing and heard only the wind and the hiss of rustling leaves. His watch gradually showed forty-five seconds… thirty seconds. Finally, it was time.
He inched out from the azaleas, stood, and aimed his water gun high into the boughs of the nearest pines. He hosed the branches until he could smell gas dripping all around, and then he waited, looking in Kosinsky’s direction. After another second, there was a glimmer of light, and very quickly three or four pines along the edge of Biddle’s property burst into flames.
A second later several more trees, these much closer, also went up, and now he lit his match and tossed it. The instant Whoosh of the igniting gas took him by surprise, and in only seconds the heat knocked him back a step. He stood there, momentarily silhouetted against the night, but then he crouched and began to move toward Maggie and Kosinsky.
At least six trees were burning. The wind whipped the flames, and limbs began to pop as the sap and pine needles caught. Glowing sparks raced off the trees and blew over the lawns, and the roar of the flames overrode even the sound of the wind. He finally saw movement out of the corner of his eye, veered toward it, and found Maggie squatting at the base of a thick oak.
He knelt beside her, shouting to be heard over the fire. “Where’s Kosinsky?”
She shook her head just as three quick shots cracked over the sound of the storm. Brent looked toward the sound but saw only the wind-lashed flames twenty or thirty yards away. Without thinking he freed his pistol and began crawling. Behind him Maggie shouted into the walkie-talkie, “We have shots fired! Fred, throw the bombs and get out right now. DeLeyon, get your ass into town. Copy?”
Brent was already too far away to hear any response, but a second later when he glanced back he spotted a new glimmer of flames in the direction of the main house. He was snaking along the side of the azalea bed, trying to stay low. He hoped he wasn’t too visible, but he didn’t slow. Kosinsky had risked his life for him.
Up ahead a dark shape lay on the grass. He froze as light from the burning pines wavered across the still form. Overhead, thunder boomed. Finally, he inched forward, watching for movement while his mind raced. Was it a terrorist? He remembered Kosinsky’s warning, but even if the guy moved, he couldn’t shoot until he knew for sure.
He was only a couple feet away before he recognized Kosinsky, lying on his back with his hand clamped tight over his left shoulder. Brent could see blood glistening in the firelight. “Steve,” he whispered, “it’s me. I’ll get help.”
“Careful,” Kosinsky groaned. “The guy came up so fast. He’s got a silencer. I got off a couple shots, but I think I missed.” He fought a wave of pain and closed his eyes. After a deep breath he opened them again. “This guy’s a pro.”
Brent looked out at darkness behind them and the conflagration in front. Which way had the guy gone? Kosinsky seemed to read his mind. He pointed a bloody finger toward the cottage. “Over there.”
The pine trees were burning on their own now, the wind sucking flames along the branches, spreading them to the main trunks. An asteroid shower of burning pine needles rained through the air. Beyond the pines the night was a pool of black ink.
Brent heard a sound behind him. He spun away from the fire and aimed blindly, realizing belatedly that he’d lost his night vision.
“It’s me!” Maggie called as she appeared out of the dark. “Hold tight, Steve,” she said. She pulled a small flashlight from her pocket, cupped the beam, and shined it on his wounded arm and then on his chest where three holes had shredded the fabric around his heart, exposing the bulletproof vest beneath. She clicked off the light and grabbed her walkie-talkie. “DeLeyon, you copy? We need an ambulance. Kosinsky’s hit. Repeat. Kosinsky’s hit. Do you copy?”
Fred’s voice came to her, filled with static from the approaching storm. “I copy,” he said. “I’m calling 911 on my cell phone, and I’ll be there in a second. Where are you?”
Brent snatched the walkie-talkie out of Maggie’s hand. “Fred, stay the hell away from here!”
“Forget it. I’ve got years of first aid. Are you near Kosinsky’s original position?”
Brent gritted his teeth. “Yes,” he said. “Be careful.”
A second later Fred came back, sounding breathless, as though he was running and trying to talk at the same time. “The guard up at the house is dead.”
Maggie grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Repeat?”
“Dead,” Fred huffed. “I saw him in the firelight after I tossed my bombs, slumped over in his little guardhouse.”
Brent gave his head a shake. Think! What was happening? Was somebody else attacking? Police? FBI? No way—there would be lights, sirens, and helicopters. No, it had to be the terrorists, but why would they kill Biddle’s guards?
“We can’t worry about it,” Maggie said, as if she’d read his mind. “Let’s cover the driveway in case they try to get away.”
“Get going!” Kosinsky said. “I’ll be okay.”
Footsteps thumped behind them. Brent turned as Fred limped into sight. “I could see you bastards all the way across the lawn,” he whispered. “You stand out real good against the fire. Just thought you’d like to know.”
“Take care of Steve,” Brent said. “I’ll cover the driveway.” He started running back the way he’d come, but almost immediately he sensed someone behind him. “Stay with Kosinsky!” he said, trying to wave Maggie back.