Painter didn’t have a moment to spare. With a finger to his lips, he waved for Denton to head down the hall, away from the gathering in \the stairwell. Denton wouldn’t be exposed for long. Fifteen feet away, the darkened hall turned abruptly to the left. Once around that corner, the professor had a clear run straight for the others.
Denton seemed to realize this. Hugging the wall, he hurried toward safety. Painter used the Mossberg’s ghost-ring sighting system to keep a watch on the assault team. If any of them made an aggressive move in Denton’s direction, he intended to drop the man with a sizzling jolt of a Taser round. The surprise of such armed resistance should drive the hunters into momentary cover, hopefully buying Painter enough time to make it around the same corner as Denton before the team regrouped.
Without taking his eyes off the assault team, he listened to the soft tread of Denton’s retreating steps. When he reached the corner, a soft double cough sounded from that direction. Painter turned in time to see Denton’s body blown away from the corner and hit the far wall. He slid into a boneless slump, half his face gone.
Painter fought against reacting, going deadly calm, hardened by fury.
A large figure stalked into view from around the corner, a pistol fitted with a silencer smoking in his grip. The man wore black combat gear like the others, his helmet fitted with night-vision goggles. Unlike his teammates, there was nothing sloppy about his manner. The sureness of his movement spoke of command. He must have silently sneaked past Painter’s position in the applied physics lab, taking point and scouting ahead on his own. From his wary posture, the fleeing professor must have caught him off guard. The soldier clearly didn’t intend to allow that to happen again as he swung toward Painter’s direction.
Whether he’d been spotted or not, Painter knew that his only hope lay in taking the offensive. He dove low into the hall. A pistol cracked in his direction — the man was fast, but in his haste, he shot too high.
Painter fired as he slid on one shoulder, the shotgun blast loud in the confined hallway. He hit the man in the upper thigh, marked by a bluish spark of electricity as the Taser ignited. The man gasped, going rigid with a violent tremble of his limbs. As he toppled toward the floor, Painter rolled on his back, pumping the Mossberg with one hand, ejecting the spent cartridge and positioning another.
Leaping to his feet, he fired blindly toward the stairwell and turned away. He heard a shocked cry from that direction, indicating he’d hit someone. He let that small victory fuel his flight down the hall. Reaching the corner, he vaulted over the twitching, agonized body of the ambusher.
As he passed, he caught a glimpse of Denton on the floor, knew he was dead. Guilt flashed through him. The professor had been under his protection. He should never have exposed him like this — but he knew why he had.
He pictured Kai’s face, scared, wide-eyed as a doe, looking years younger than eighteen. He’d taken risks he normally wouldn’t have dared to take — and another man had paid the price for his recklessness.
Still, for the moment, he had no time for remorse.
As he turned the hall’s corner, gunfire spattered behind him. He ducked and fled out of the direct line of fire from the assault team — but such a reprieve wouldn’t last for long.
“Get up!” Rafe yelled at the screen.
Through the camera feed, he had watched Bern shoot some white-coated old man in the face, savoring that frozen look of surprise before it vanished in a fog of bone and blood. But that victory was short-lived. A moment later, his second-in-command was on his back. The camera feed revealed a twitching view of the ceiling — then a shadowy figure leaped over Bern’s body, carrying a rifle or shotgun in one hand.
Rafe leaned close enough to bring his nose to the screen. He pressed to activate Bern’s radio. “Get up!” he repeated.
He didn’t so much care if Bern captured the shooter. He just wanted to see what was happening. He leaned back, a tight grin on his face. All of this was quite exciting.
Painter sprinted down the hall. It was a straight run to reach the laboratory at the back of the facility. Ahead, a set of double doors creaked open. He spotted Kowalski spying out, his pistol pointing down the hall toward Painter. He must have heard the gunfire.
Painter yelled, “Get everyone back! Into cover!”
Obeying, Kowalski retreated, but not before he kicked the door wide, opening the way for Painter’s headlong flight.
Every second counted.
As he ran, Painter pulled back the shotgun’s pump, ejecting the spent cartridge. Cradling the Mossberg under an arm, he freed the jury-rigged shell from his pocket and fumbled it into the empty chamber. Once this was done, he slid the pump forward, pushing the block and firing pin into position.
He would have only one shot.
As he reached the lab door, the crack of a pistol sounded behind him. He felt a burning slice across his upper arm as a bullet grazed him. Glancing back, he saw the downed commando, limbs still twitching, haul himself around the corner. The pistol, wavering in his grip, fired again, but missed.
Painter grimly admitted the truth to himself: That’s one tough bastard.
Reaching the lab, he dove inside and pulled the door shut behind him. Seconds later, the staccato rounds of an automatic rifle pounded the steel door as the rest of the assault team must have reached the hallway. The gunfire continued without pause.
He had no time.
To make matters worse, he was blind. With the door shut, the laboratory was pitch-black. He skidded deeper into the room, one arm in front to keep from crashing into something.
“Where?” he yelled above the ringing cacophony of the assault.
Ahead, a flashlight ignited, spearing the room with a dazzling brightness. It revealed the others hidden behind the heavy bulk of a Van de Graaff accelerator, part of a larger complex that extended deeper into the cavernous room.
Painter hurried toward them, scanning the roof for the C4.
“Behind you!” Kowalski yelled from his shelter. “Above the door.”
Painter swung around and stared up. The flashlight’s beam centered on a yellow-grayish glob of explosive crammed into a crevice above the door. It looked like an old stress fracture that had recently been patched. Kowalski had chosen a good spot.
He raised his shotgun — just as the double doors were yanked open in front of him. Gunfire strafed blindly into the room. Painter stumbled away and dropped to his back. A pair of commandos rushed into the lab under the cover of the barrage. Kowalski returned fire from his sheltered position.
Painter caught a glimpse of the soldier he’d Tasered out in the hallway. The guy pointed an arm, barking orders, clearly the leader.
Painter couldn’t give him any more attention than that.
From the floor, he lifted his shotgun, centered his aim on the patch of C4, and pulled the trigger. The shotgun blasted, the XREP dart flew out, and a spat of electricity sparked along the roof as it impacted — but nothing else happened.
Kowalski swore, clearly girding himself for the pitched firefight to come.
What had gone wr—
— a deafening boom knocked the wind from Painter’s lungs and flung his body against the bulk of the accelerator. As he flew back, he watched the two commandos in the room get flattened, pounded first by the shock wave, then buried under a tumble of cement, twisted rebar, and soil.