“I see,” Matt said. “So he has delegated the dirty task of killing me to you? He wants you to avenge his grudge?”
Once again, Matt’s mind was not truly monitoring the words his well-trained brain was formulating and causing his mouth to speak. Every ounce of his analytical power was operating faster, more powerfully than any Intel microchip could ever push a computer hard drive. Scores of chess moves played out, then the board reset, then another option played out, then the board reset, and so on.
There is one last chance, and only one, he surmised.
“A task that I do not mind at all. In fact, it gives me great pleasure to do this,” his lead captor said.
Matt noticed as the man began to transfer the shotgun from a carrying position to a firing position that the butt stock was passing beneath the assassin’s armpit and would begin to rise toward his chest. Matt had run this possibility through five or six different permutations.
As the butt stock passed the man’s armpit, Matt lunged with the quickness and ferocity of a mountain lion, catching both of his captors unawares. As part of his mental algorithm he had calculated the length of the long barrel and how much time it would take for the man with the musical voice to swing it into action. Having hunted fowl with a Browning before, Matt knew that the barrel was maddeningly long and that only skilled and experienced hunters could maneuver it with precision. Most fumbled clumsily with the awkward length. Matt had also noticed that both weapons seemed practically brand new. They were shiny, with a light sheen of oil, and clean, with no marring on the butt stocks.
Without warning, Matt grabbed the long barrel and thrust it sharply upward, catching the man squarely under the jaw, snapping his head back and causing momentary shock. He kicked the stunned captor in the stomach as he ripped the shotgun from his grip, launching him off balance, then instinctively thumbed the safety off and fired into the belly of the man with the musical voice. The shotgun created a thunderous boom. But another boom, not created by Matt’s weapon, quickly followed and he felt a searing hot pellet rip through his biceps. Then he quickly fired another round into the skull of the backup man as if he were knocking down two quail that had taken flight at the point of his dog, Ranger.
Matt confirmed what he already knew, that both of his captors were dead, as he moved briskly to the door. He realized that he would be in a race with the guard at the end of the hallway to Peyton’s room. Leading with the shotgun barrel, he quickly turned into the long hallway. He picked up the movement of the guard racing toward him, fumbling with his pistol, and Matt squeezed the trigger. The shot stood the guard straight up, splaying his hands into the air as if he had suddenly decided to surrender. The pistol came tumbling toward Matt, involuntarily tossed to him by the forward motion of the guard’s arm. Matt secured the pistol and stuffed it in his waistband. Then he snatched another pistol magazine from the guard’s belt, shoved it in his pocket, and moved toward Peyton’s door, still leading with the shotgun.
He kicked the door open, turning into the room and visually clearing each corner. In the adjacent corner, he saw Peyton cuffed and gagged, eyes wide with fear and pointing behind him and to his right, the only unclear corner. Swiftly, he dropped the shotgun, and with the skill of a ballerina-turned-gymnast, he drew the pistol from his belt and fired three shots as he turned. As Matt’s eyes caught up with his shots, he heard the first two slap against the stone wall, but the third made a wet thud. He watched as his would-be attacker slumped to the ground with a widening crimson hole seeping blood from his chest.
Unsure of how many or how soon reinforcements would arrive, he moved quickly toward Peyton, removed her gag, and freed her wrists.
“You okay?” he asked as he worked on a troublesome knot around her ankles.
“Fine, fine,” Peyton said. “Where did you learn how to shoot like that? Not that I’m complaining.”
“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing her by the arm.
“Wait!” Peyton insisted as she followed him out of the room. “There’s a man in another room. I saw him.”
“No time,” Matt hissed, handing her the pistol and hustling along the hallway. He stopped at the corner, and leading with the shotgun, spun into the adjacent hall.
“How the hell do you get out of here?” Matt asked.
“Stop here! Stop!” she yelled as they approached a door on the right. Peyton pushed into the door, but it didn’t budge. “Stand back!”
“What are you…?” Matt began to ask but stalled out, observing Peyton draw the pistol, level it just above the door knob, and fire with an unexpectedly fluid and natural motion to disable the lock. She pushed the door open with her foot and rushed into the room, unconcerned with what lay behind the door.
“Where is he?” she shouted.
“Who the hell are you looking for?” Matt said, following her in. Then he saw a man sitting in the corner of the room staring at a small glass, mesmerized and oblivious to their presence.
“Come on! Let’s go!” Peyton yelled running toward the man.
He was wearing the kind of white smock used in laboratories. His gray hair was balding and wire-rimmed spectacles framed his eyes. The man wore blue jeans and tennis shoes, making him look a bit like a mad scientist, frizzy hair and all.
Turning his head slowly, the mad scientist looked at Matt, or rather, looked through him. Matt turned to see what he was staring at and took a step back.
Peyton had already stopped and reached her hand out to the man.
“Peyton, let’s go!” Matt yelled.
Peyton released the arm of the catatonic scientist, spun on her heels, and ran toward Matt.
“What the hell are all those bees doing in here?” she shouted, darting past him.
In the back of the room, Matt saw hundreds, maybe thousands, of bees, all swarming in basically the same spot, about fifteen feet away. As his adrenaline ebbed, the high-pitched whine of thousands of wings snapping hundreds of times per second created a vibrant hum in the room, like the feeling of a jet engine thrusting just before takeoff.
“I’m not sure I want to find out,” he said, moving out of the door, only to be greeted by automatic gunfire. He spun quickly back into the room and waited two counts before he swung the barrel back into the passageway and laid down two suppressive shots. Out of shells, he turned to Peyton. “Trade me,” Matt said, motioning to the Glock in Peyton’s hand. She handed it to him and accepted the unwieldy shotgun without taking her eyes off the swarm of bees. Matt checked the magazine and shoved it back home. He took a deep breath and asked Peyton, “Where to?”
“To the right and across the hall, that’s the way they took me to the doctor,” she said.
“Okay, follow me. We’re running,” Matt said, focused.
He fired three more shots from the pistol to his left and then darted in the direction Peyton had suggested. He found the door open, pushed through it, and burst into the dark night.
CHAPTER 12