They were now fifteen, maybe twenty seconds from collision. Gideon braced himself for the impact, frantically buckling himself in, his mind calculating a hundred possible responses to follow.
The collision came with a tremendous jolt, a deafening clash of steel against steel, throwing him forward, buckling his cab and shattering the already-holed windshield. He instantly threw the machine into reverse, backing and turning frantically as he fingered the joystick controller. Nodding Crane was doing the same with his backhoe, the wheels churning as he maneuvered into position.
Gideon extended the boom and, wielding the backhoe bucket like a club, pivoted it sideways at the other machine’s cab; the quarter-ton piece of steel swung around with a whine of hydraulics. But Nodding Crane anticipated the move, raising his own backhoe to block it, and the two booms struck each other with a violent, deafening crash.
The blow knocked Gideon’s backhoe sideways, spraying hydraulic fluid, and almost immediately a fusillade of shots tore through his cab. One struck the Kevlar vest that covered his chest, kicking him back, knocking his wind out.
Gasping for breath, struggling with the controls, Gideon saw the blow had by chance rotated his machine back into a striking position; he raised the bucket and brought it down hard on the other machine’s cab; but again the assassin saw it coming and lurched forward, striking Gideon’s machine with his own loader and tipping him back. Gideon’s bucket glanced off the corner of the cab with a spray of sparks and he frantically worked the controls, throwing out the stabilizers, trying to keep his backhoe from tipping over.
Nodding Crane raised his loader higher, readying it for a violent blow. As he did so he exposed himself. Gideon dropped the controls and, firing with both hands, emptied the Beretta into Nodding Crane’s cab, the rounds blowing out the glass windows and turning the interior into a flurry of broken plastic. But Nodding Crane had dropped to the floor, behind the protection of the lowered loader, an angle Gideon couldn’t target.
Seizing the controls again, Gideon jammed the accelerator forward, ramming the other machine while raising the backhoe to smash the other’s cab. Nodding Crane blocked the move by raising his loader, and they clashed with a shower of sparks. At the same time, he extended his bucket high on its boom, then brought it down on Gideon’s cab with a terrific crunch, half-collapsing the cab in a burst of crackling metal and plastic, sprung wires and insulation.
Gideon threw himself to the floor, avoiding being pulverized at the very last moment. But his backhoe was now useless, the seat crushed, the controls gone. And he could hear Nodding Crane lifting his bucket for another massive blow. He had to get out.
He threw himself against the buckled door. It wouldn’t open.
Nodding Crane’s bucket came down with another shuddering crash, almost trapping Gideon in the wreckage, but when it lifted a tooth caught on part of the frame and tore open a hole in the tangled cab. Seeing his chance, Gideon dove through the hole, simultaneously pulling out the Taurus and firing up at Nodding Crane. He landed in the muck, rolled. Nodding Crane raised the bucket again, obviously intending to crush him like a bug. Gideon struggled to his feet and ran for the cover of the trench, fifty yards away.
A flurry of shots kicked up the mud around him and one slammed into his Kevlar-covered back, knocking him down. He wallowed in the muck, unable to rise, pain ripping through him. He could see more shots walking along the ground, sweeping toward him, and then he heard the roar of the backhoe as it bore down on him, full speed. He would never make the cover of the trench…
…And then he heard a distant pop pop popfrom the trees and the clang of bullets on metal. Mindy. The shots drew Nodding Crane’s fire away, forcing him to halt the backhoe and turn it to cover himself. Gideon seized the opportunity to struggle to his feet and stagger toward the trench, diving in.
He turned and started firing from the lip of the trench, raking Nodding Crane. Magazine empty, he reloaded with trembling hands and slammed it back into place, maintaining a steady fire.
The crossfire hemmed in Nodding Crane. He swung the loader around, trying to use it as a shield, but was unable to effectively block fire from two directions as the rounds tore through his cab. He backed the machine with a furious diesel roar, retreating across the field, moving out of handgun range. Gideon stopped firing and used the moment to once again reload the Beretta. As he did so he saw Mindy’s dark figure come running across the field, firing while she ran. He emptied his magazine, covering her, and a moment later she leapt into the trench as more gunfire erupted from the far end of the field.
“You’re supposed to stay in the trees!” he yelled over the storm.
“You need covering fire while you find the leg.”
Gideon realized she was right.
She positioned herself at the lip, firing steadily, the return fire kicking dirt off the edge of the trench or slamming into the walls of the trench behind them. Gideon quickly turned back to the wall of boxes, shining his light on each one in turn, frantically wiping off the mud. And there it was, halfway down: 695–998 MSH.
“Got it!” he exclaimed.
“Hurry!” Mindy kept firing from the edge of the trench.
He frantically pulled the covering boxes down, throwing them to one side, until he had exposed the right one. Grasping it by the edges, he hauled it free. Both his chest and back throbbed violently at the effort: the shots had broken a rib, maybe two. Raising the pickax, he swung it full-force into the lid, splitting it. With another fierce motion he ripped the pieces away and then probed inside with his light.
“Son of a bitch!” he cried. “It’s an arm!”
66
Gideon grabbed the tab tied to one finger, read off the patient data. MUKULSKI, ANNA, ST. LUKE’S DOWNTOWN 659346C-41. These bastards mixed up the body parts!” he cried.
“Keep looking!” Mindy yelled back.
She ducked as more bullets raked the lip of the trench, showering them both with mud.
Gideon surveyed the jumble of boxes, chose one at random, swung his pick at it and ripped off the lid, spilling out what appeared to be a diseased lung. Kicking it aside, he attacked another box, then another, ripping open the lids, ignoring all but the legs and reading the tags on those. Many of the boxes had broken open in the confusion and he sorted through the piles of body parts and less recognizable organs, checking the tags and putting the rejects aside. They had been days, even weeks, in the warm summer ground, and most of them were rotting, soft, bloated.
“He’s returning with the backhoe,” Mindy said.
“Keep him at bay!” Gideon pushed the discarded offal to one side of the trench and with his pick toppled another series of boxes, ripping off their lids. More arms and legs tumbled out, a veritable charnel pit.
“Sorry, guys,” he muttered under his breath.
“He’s coming! I can’t stop him — he’s got his loader up!”
“Find me time!” Frantically, Gideon sorted through the limbs, reading the tags, shoving the discards aside. And then, there they were: two legs, almost completely crushed, in the same box with a tag that read: WU, MARK. SINAI 659347A-44.
“Got it!” He hauled the left leg out of the box, laid it on a plank of wood. It was so rotten, it separated at the knee. But it was the thigh he needed. He yanked the box cutter out of his backpack and pulled out the X-rays. Laying his flashlight down, he held up the X-rays, compared them with the leg, identifying the place to cut.
“For God’s sake, hurry! He’s dropped his loader and he’s pushing a wall of dirt toward us! I can’t fire through it!”