“No.”
Smith might not be a real general, but he had been a real soldier, and he did have a shotgun pointed at Ventura. Bubba, on the other side of the truck, had a handgun. But if Bubba fired first, he would have to shoot through the glass, and his angle might partially deflect the bullet. If Ventura ducked suddenly, Smith would probably pull the trigger, and with any luck, the charge of BBs would go right over his head and through the passenger window. It would take half a second for Smith to rack the slide for a second shot, and while a full-sized American pickup truck’s door would not stop a deer or sabot slug from a twelve-gauge, it would stop a load of number 4 buck, or most of it.
Ventura weighed his chances. This was it. He had assessed the situation as best he could. As soon as he handed over the disk, he was a dead man anyway. Smith couldn’t let him walk away and expect to sleep nights, because sooner or later, he’d know that Ventura would come for him. And a wire enclosure full of men playing soldier wouldn’t be enough protection, Smith knew that. The only reason he didn’t shoot him now was to make sure he had the data, and to find out what he could about it.
Here was the moment. No past. No future. Be here now.
He smiled and made his decision. The only one he could make.
“All right, General. We’ll play it your way—”
— but as fast as he could move, Ventura ducked and grabbed for his pistol—
39
As it sometimes did when things turned violently dangerous, time narrowed and slowed. Michaels saw Ventura disappear from sight, and the blast of the shotgun was a tremendous boom! immediately after that—
Bubba fired his pistol, a thin and almost quiet crack! crack! and two holes appeared in the truck’s windshield—
Somehow, amazed at himself, Michaels found himself on his feet, running toward the shooting, his tiny, insignificant taser stretched out in front of himself at arm’s length—
Ventura’s hand came up inside the truck like a periscope, a pistol in it, and he fired at the shotgunner, twisted, and fired at Bubba—blam! blam! — that quick—
The shotgunner went down, hit in the body, but Bubba had dodged as soon as Ventura’s pistol came up, and he fired his own gun wildly, six — eight? — times; it sounded almost like a full-auto, one continuous crackcrackcrackcrack! and it must have run empty because it stopped—
Ventura sat up, and he shoved his pistol toward the shotgunner, but the man rolled and came up and pointed the shotgun at Ventura again and fired—
Michaels saw Ventura take the blast in the chest and bang into the steering wheel, but he managed to get off another shot that seemed to hit the shotgunner without major effect. The shotgunner let go a third blast—
Ventura disappeared from view—
Michaels realized he was screaming, as the shotgunner turned his head and stared at him in surprise. He started to bring the shotgun around, and it was too far for a taser shot, but Michaels triggered the thing anyway. Twin silvery needles lanced at the shotgunner — he could see the electric darts — but they hit the shotgun, one in the butt, one in the forestock, and that wouldn’t do shit—
The shotgun’s muzzle came around, slowly… slowly… and it was almost lined up when the shooter realized Michaels was about to barrel into him at a dead run, so he fired—
Too soon! The blast went past Michaels’s right ear; he felt a tug and a quick burn, but that was all, and then he slammed into the shooter at a dead run and they both went down—
The impact stunned them both, but Michaels recovered first. He rolled up and kicked at the other man’s head. He missed, but caught a shoulder as the shotgunner tried to roll away—
The shotgun was on the street five yards down the hill.
Michaels was aware that Bubba was on the other side of the truck, probably reloading his pistol, and that he didn’t have time to fool around here. The shotgunner came up, groggy, hands rising in a defensive posture, and Michaels didn’t wait, but leaped in and snapped his elbow right at the man’s temple, as hard as he could. There was a damp snap! and the man went down bonelessly limp, but Bubba was coming around the front of the truck, Bubba and his pistol, and Michaels knew he was screwed—
He was going to die—
Somebody flew out of nowhere and slammed into Bubba from behind, knocking his pistol loose as he went to one knee. His attacker dived and rolled up, two yards past Bubba, spun to face him—
Michaels stared, unable to believe what he saw.
Toni?!
The big man went down to his knee, and she had too much momentum to stop, so Toni stretched out into a shoulder roll, hit the road hard enough to clack her teeth together, but came up mostly unhurt. Shoulder was gonna be real sore — assuming she survived that long.
The big man was up, coming at her. He swung a punch that would have flattened a horse had it hit, a hard right cross—
Toni ducked, double-tapped the man’s thick and muscular arm with her left palm and right backhand, used the momentum of the second tap to cock her elbow, and stepped in at an angle to her left — he was too big to meet head-on — then slammed her right elbow into his ribs.
She felt the ribs go, heard him grunt and slow his advance a little, but it wasn’t enough to stop him; he kept coming. He was too big, too strong — if he grabbed her, that would be bad—
Too close for the foot sweep, she had to use her thigh. She caught his upper leg with hers, snapped her knee upward, and shoved with her right hand at his belt line—
The seesaw lever worked. He lost his balance and sprawled facedown on the street, hands outstretched to absorb his fall—
Toni followed him. When he lifted his head, she kicked for his chin, but he fell away and blocked at the same time, and her shin met his left forearm bone—
His arm was weaker. The ulna snapped—
Damn, he was tough. He grabbed at her foot, missed when she dodged back, and used the grab’s moment to regain his feet. He jumped in again and fired a hard straight punch, using his good right arm—
Toni was in the zone, fighting in a righteous rage, no longer thinking, blending with her attacker. She punched her right fist at his head, stretched out over his punch, and blocked with her left at the same time, deflecting his arm just behind the elbow. Her punch hit his ear, no big impact, but she was in position for the putar kepala—the head twist. She scooped inside his right elbow with her left hand, caught his neck with her right, and circled her hands, left up, right down, pulling them close into her body as she dropped her weight. The motion twisted him around clockwise, and she grabbed his head with both hands.
A twist alone was a neck crank, painful but not damaging.
A twist and pull, putting an arch in his back, was a break.
She twisted sharply counterclockwise and pulled at the same time—
The sound of the vertebrae cracking seemed louder to her than the shotgun blast had been.
The man fell. He might survive, but he wasn’t going to be getting up on his own. Not now, and maybe never again.
The fury left her as she turned, looking for more opponents.
There were none. Only Alex standing over the downed shotgunner, staring at her in amazement.