He moved across to the corridor wall on the right, and with Jim Daid beside him began moving up slowly. Ahead were Rooms, 6, 5, and 4.
He felt the door frame of Room 6 and briefly considered blasting his way in and opening the windows to get some light. Instead, he decided the darkness could work to his advantage also.
Grady and two other Rangers watched the two terrorists through their night-vision equipment. All had activated their laser sights. The thin beams were invisible except to those wearing the appropriate goggles. As it was, the Rangers could see each of the two terrorists fixed with pinpoints of imminent death. No one fired.
Kilmara studied the situation. Both men had removed their masks to see better in the darkness, and he could now identify them. He wanted a prisoner who knew something. This was a contract job, so probably neither of them would know much, but it was worth a try.
"Filters on," said Kilmara. He flicked a switch again and an immensely powerful light blazed from the end of the corridor, then went out again immediately.
McGongal and Daid blinked in the light and mentally marked its source. They would shoot it out when it came on again.
Suddenly it flashed on and off again at bewildering speed, like some disco strobe light gone berserk.
Both terrorists fired, but the strobe effect was disorienting. They concentrated and fired short aimed bursts straight at the light. They could hear rounds whining and ricocheting, and it occurred to McGonigal that the light must be covered with bulletproof glass or transparent ballistic plastic. He began to feel sick and disoriented; then he started to shake. His weapon slid from his hands and he collapsed to the floor in what looked like a seizure.
He was the victim of a device which had initially been developed for crowd control and which exploited the discovery that certain people were disoriented by strobe lights. The developers had increased the intensity and flashing frequency of the beam and the results had exceeded their expectations. Prolonged exposure, even for a few minutes, could turn the recipient into a permanent epileptic. The technology was cheap and effective and belonged in a category known as ‘non-lethal weapons.’ Having seen the results of some of these toys — sonic beams designed to deafen, laser beams designed to blind — Kilmara found the category something of a misnomer. Still, he had to admit the Megabeam was a more compassionate alternative to being shot very permanently dead.
Unfortunately, shielded behind McGonigal, Jim Daid was not equally affected. Disoriented though he was, he still managed a desperate rush at the door of Fitzduane's room, his automatic rifle blazing.
Bullets splintered the door already blasted half open by the grenade. Sick and nauseated, Daid stumbled in, firing.
His last glimpse of life was of a near-solid line of light emanating from the far side of the room and terminating in his upper body. Flesh was ripped, bones were smashed, blood spewed from a dozen holes. Lifeless, he was thrown backwards into the corridor beside the gibbering McGonigal.
An electric motor whirred and the partition rose. The Rangers moved forward. The entire action, from the time the terrorists had started climbing the fire escape to enter the hospital, had taken two minutes and twenty-three seconds.
Fitzduane had slept through everything until the grenades had gone off. Then he had woken and reached for the Calico automatic rifle. The weapon was exceptionally easy to operate. The safety catch could be operated by either hand, and by touch alone. The cartridges ejected downward into a nylon bag as he fired. The weapon was environmentally friendly — no litter. The balance was perfect. It was loaded with red tracer. He just had to point and hose.
That is exactly what he did.
"Shit! Shit! Shit!" said Kilmara, turning the room lights back on. "May the Lord fuck you from a height, Hugo! Why did you have to shoot him? Why couldn't you just wound the fucker? We need someone to question. We need to know who is doing this. We need a prisoner. We need some answers."
Fitzduane was sitting up in his bed, smoke trickling from his automatic weapon. He looked as dangerous as anyone in pajamas can.
"A modest priority," he snarled, "I need to stay alive. Besides," he added, "I've been wounded — and believe me, it isn't fun."
* * * * *
Sasada heard muffled explosions and his heart leaped. It's done, he thought, it's done.
He looked at his watch, imaging bursts of automatic-rifle fire as McGonigal and his people tidied up behind them and ran down the stairs. He started the engine of the Cavalier and kept his eye on the corner. Any moment now, they would appear around it.
Seconds passed, and then suddenly a figure clad in a blue boilersuit appeared and ran toward him. He flung open the door on the passenger side. The figure still wore his Halloween mask.
The fangs of a vampire told Sasada it was McGonigal. The figure beckoned to the others behind him, though Sasada could not see them. He felt relieved. He had thought for a moment that something had gone wrong and only McGonigal had made it out.
The vampire haled at the open door and pointed his AK-47 at Sasada. The Japanese stared at him.
"New rules," said Grady. "I don't get in; you get out."
Sasada reached for the door handle and suddenly flung himself out of the car. To his surprise, Grady did not fire. Sasada, now crouched behind the front of the car, drew his automatic.
"Oh dear, oh dear," said Grady patiently. "I guess I'd better count up to ten."
Sasada suddenly stood up to fire at the spot from which the voice had come, and felt the gun plucked from his hand from behind. Seconds later, he was spread-eagled over the car's hood and being handcuffed behind his back. The handcuffs were secured to an unbreakable belt made out of the same material as body armor. Looser restraints were placed around his ankles so that he could hobble but not walk and he was hauled to his feet.
He was surrounded by men in black combat uniforms wearing body armor with built-in pouches, microphone-equipped helmets, and carrying a range of futuristic-looking weaponry, none of which he was familiar with.
A distinguished looking bearded man in the same black combat clothing and helmet walked over to him. He had an automatic weapon slung over one shoulder and a holstered handgun at his waist. He wore no badges of rank, but it was clear he did not need to.
He said nothing until two of the black-clad men completed an extremely thorough body search. Then he spoke.
"You and I are going to get to know each other very well," he said. "Normally the police and prison service handle people like you, but in this case, you will be our guest." The voice was gentle, almost friendly. "And you will talk."
Sasada felt weak and very much afraid. As he was being handcuffed, he had clung to the belief that he would be handed over to the police and the civil authorities. In such custody, he would say nothing, reveal nothing, as his oath dictated. Now the certainty in this man's voice cut through his resolution.
The man-in-black's eyes were merciless, though his voice remained relaxed. "Under the Irish legal system, you have the right to remain silent, and I'm sure your little group demands no less." He paused. Sasada felt as if his mind was being read. "But," the man continued, "you are an exceptional case and you are playing in a very special game."
Sasada wanted to defy this man in some way, but his mouth was too dry to spit and he did not want to give him the satisfaction of hearing him speak.