As Mac moved on the two, Dozsa swung the stock of the gun at Lance and crushed his nose, making the Australian stagger backwards in a bloody mess. Mac got to Dozsa as the gun came around and a shot passed his head as he threw a flying elbow at Dozsa’s mouth.
Staggering backwards from the blow, Dozsa lost his balance over the back of a chair; the Koreans scattered out of his way, Dozsa’s gun firing into the ceiling as he fell on his head.
Retrieving his rifle, Mac let two shots go as Dozsa clambered under the computer monitor desks. Boots kicked at the control room door and faces stared through the security glass — Israeli faces.
‘Let’s go,’ said Mac, grabbing Lance, throwing him under the computer frames as automatic weapons tore into the security door.
Crawling under the load of hard drives and monitors, Mac grabbed Lance by the ankle as they moved over the hollow-sounding floor.
‘Here,’ said Mac. ‘You okay?’
‘No.’ Lance was hyperventilating. ‘But I can move.’
Feeling around the hollow area, Mac found the trapdoor with his fingers. Opening it, he stuck his head under and saw a service tunnel that contained a thick rope of wires and fibre-optic cables, carried six feet above the concrete into the middle distance.
The door caved in and boots tattooed across the room as Mac pushed Lance into the hole and watched him drop to the floor below. Mac followed as automatic gunfire rattled under the frames, causing one to collapse. Looking to his right as he ducked down, Mac saw Joel Dozsa, also under the framework and aiming at Mac’s head.
‘You’re dead, McQueen,’ said Dozsa as the gun spat fire.
Mac dropped into the tunnel, his right forearm spewing blood from a bullet nick. ‘This way,’ he said, limping along the dimly lit tunnel, dragging Lance by the arm.
The tunnel ended in a door. Pushing on it, they descended into a loading bay. Gunfire sounded sporadically, and Mac turned, raising the Heckler. An Israeli head popped down through the trapdoor and Mac opened fire at it until the gun seized — no more loads.
‘Red Dog, Red Dog,’ said Mac into the radio mouthpiece as he looked around the deserted loading area. ‘Red Dog, this is Blue Boy — need a ride.’
Bongo’s voice crackled a few seconds later. ‘Gotcha, Blue Boy — meet me at the driveway.’
Emerging into the first light of dawn, Mac jumped to the ground from the loading bay and gasped at the pain in his calf. Lance jogged behind him as they skirted the house for the driveway, Mac feeling naked without firearms.
There were dead bodies at the main entrance to the house and it looked as though Bongo had blown a hole in the main entrance. An eerie silence enveloped the area, broken by the thump of helo rotors. Like a giant black beast, the Little Bird rose out of the valley in front of Dozsa’s house, Tranh’s head lolling unnaturally in the co-pilot seat and Bongo’s gum-chewing face expressionless behind the tinted visor on his helmet.
‘Let’s make this quick, Blue Boy,’ said Bongo over the headset. ‘The Chinese accounted for — Dozsa and some Israelis still active.’
Staggering to the place where Bongo was landing the helo, Mac felt the nausea of pain blurring inwards from the periphery of his vision. He panted his encouragement to Lance as he limped down the driveway.
A loud noise erupted and the Little Bird’s cockpit dome turned to stars. Dropping to the driveway Mac saw Dozsa and the other Israeli emerge at the main entrance, Dozsa holding the .50-cal and the other man shooting an M4.
Trying to bury his head in the gravel as they were caught in the crossfire, Mac heard the helo’s Gatling gun spin and then it was spitting death.
The Israeli soldier was torn apart instantly, leaving Dozsa facing the Gatling gun.
It hardly mattered. As Dozsa got a better grip on the heavy belt-fed gun, the house expanded in a fireball of orange and red, the roof blowing off and the main tunnel doors flying fifty feet into the bush as the C4 was detonated. The noise sounded like a massive train crash, forcing hot air out like a hurricane and spewing thousands of pieces of computer, monitor, concrete and steel into the air and across the driveway like high-tech tumbleweeds. A piece of computer flew at Mac’s elbow and Lance was hit on the head by a lump of concrete the size of a cricket ball, knocking him out.
Debris rained for another twenty seconds as Mac tried to sit up.
‘Watch it, McQueen,’ said Bongo, getting out of the helo and pointing.
Turning, Mac saw Dozsa, about thirty feet from where he’d last been standing, his chinos hanging in tatters, flaps of skin hanging off him like bloody gills.
Looking around for his machine-gun, the ex-Mossad man realised it was back on the front veranda and instead he faced Mac and pulled a mini Ka-bar from his ankle sheath.
‘I told you to steal the SD chip, McQueen,’ said Dozsa, looking drunk with the shock of the explosion. ‘Your job was to take the chip and go home to Kangaroo-land, you fucking imbecile.’
‘Nice idea, Joel, but why would an Israeli psycho let me go?’ said Mac, moving forwards to meet Dozsa. ‘And why would he tempt me to take the chip and leave the hostages? It felt like a Mossad deception.’
‘You think too much, my Aussie friend,’ said Dozsa. ‘You could have taken the chip, flown home and got a medal — we could have avoided this.’
As much as he wanted to take Dozsa to the ground and choke him out or break his neck, Mac knew it was impossible with his leg virtually useless.
‘We’d never avoid this,’ said Mac, getting to within ten feet of Dozsa’s battered body. ‘You’d fly back to Malta or the Seychelles — wherever you’re based — and count the money in your numbered accounts while the people of this region would have China kicking the shit out of anything that moved.’
Dozsa shrugged.
‘And why?’ said Mac. ‘So some passed-over general can dissolve the Central Committee and run China as a military dictatorship?’
‘Stability is what he calls it,’ said Dozsa, moving the knife to his other hand.
‘We don’t need that kind of stability in this region, Dozsa.’
Mac heard the crunch of gravel behind him. Turning, he saw Tranh and Bongo.
‘Philippines need Pao Peng stirring up the shit?’ said Mac to Bongo.
‘We got enough fighting, thanks, Dozsa,’ said Bongo.
‘What about Vietnam?’ said Mac.
‘Had our war,’ said Tranh.
‘My heart bleeds,’ said Dozsa, lunging at Mac.
Dancing back, Mac tore off his shirt and bundled it in his left hand as Dozsa regained balance and prepared for another strike. Struggling for grip on the gravel, Mac’s leg finally gave way and he hopped on his good leg, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Dozsa, seeing his opportunity, leapt at Mac’s solar plexus with the knife, slicing through soft skin. Mac hit down on the knife hand with his shirt bundle as the blade passed across his midriff, taking the Israeli off balance. Simultaneously he threw a hard punch with his right hand at the hinge of Dozsa’s exposed right jaw and then collapsed on the gravel.
Mac lay on his side, and his mouth sagged open as he tried to move. His body had taken too much punishment and he could no longer stand.
‘You fuck,’ said Dozsa, looming over him and cradling his broken jaw. ‘You moron.’
The Ka-bar’s blade glinted in the morning sun and Mac accepted his fate. He couldn’t go on — he could barely breathe. A shadow crossed his face and he looked up at Bongo.
‘So,’ Dozsa spoke from the side of his mouth as he squared off on the Filipino, ‘the Aussie hard man needs his big brother?’
‘McQueen didn’t ask,’ said Bongo, circling with the Israeli. ‘I offered.’
‘Still, it doesn’t look good,’ said Dozsa, sneering. ‘You sure he wants this?’