“We stay right here, Professor,” Rafie yelled back, gripping Jarrod’s wrist. “The tank’s gunner is watching our every move. You’re an infrared object…the safest place is on this trailer. If she blows, she blows. Nothing we can do about it now,” he retorted authoritatively.
From the front of the trailer, Kilmer looked past Rafie to the two vehicles fast-approaching their position. Even with his night goggles he couldn’t make them out at first but didn’t imagine they would help his cause. When he finally did recognize the Navigator, he realized it had come from Wildcat and was most likely responsible for cutting off Starkovich. “Bag that piker,” he said, triggering a volley of lead from his automatic machine pistol. “I want the prick dead.”
Ryan Marshall had the Lincoln traveling 100 miles per hour, driving toward a destination he couldn’t begin to fathom. Everything on the horizon was either lit up, exploding, or on fire. Suddenly a wicked pain creased his shoulder as if he’d been stung by a hornet. Another sting swiped his neck; then another parted his scalp. It was then he noticed the bullet holes peppering his windshield. He set the speed control to keep driving forward and instinctively slumped behind the dash. He could barely make out the road ahead anyway, blinded by the intense searchlights coming from the depository. His entire focus was to stay the course until he reached the Peterbilt or die trying, whichever came first.
His progress measurably slowed when a stray bullet pierced the radiator, disabling the engine. A cursory peek above the dash showed the Peterbilt just a few hundred yards straight ahead. He figured momentum alone would carry him the remaining distance. Go, you dog…go!
The Lincoln Navigator remained steadily ahead of Henry and Palmer as they tried to overtake Marshall advancing to the scene. Emerson couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the vehicle had been hit; wisps of steam were curling from beneath the chassis.
“Stop the car, Jason,” Palmer yelled. “Shut off the lights.”
“It won’t matter, Emerson, they’re all wearing night goggles,” Henry argued.
“Just do it; now!”
Henry came to a screeching halt in the center of the road and Palmer jumped from the car with the night-scope. Henry then realized that the headlights would overamplify the night-vision, disrupting Emerson’s view. Stupid.
“Okay, there’re four men on the trailer. Man, it’s rocking hard… looks to blow any moment,” Palmer reported. “Rafie’s standing apart from the other two. There’re shooting at Marshall’s car. You’re right about Rafie…he’s covering the professor. There may be others I can’t locate. But we’re out of time…we’ve got to engage right now.”
Palmer grabbed the second Winchester 30.06 the men had bought from the Bass Pro Shop. He steadied the rifle on the open door of the car. Concentrating on the men near the back of the trailer, he took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The bullet missed the mark. Damn, no time to adjust these sights.
Richard Kilmer heard the bullet zing past and knew counter-forces were drawing closer. His final priority was Jarrod Conrad. No way he makes it out alive.
“Rafie… move,” Kilmer yelled, pointing the gun in his direction. “I want Conrad dead!” When Rafie didn’t immediately respond, he roared, “Ya gone berko? Move yer arse…hear me?”
A second bullet came from nowhere, hitting Kilmer in the stomach just below his Kevlar vest, doubling him over. He knew wounds to the gut were always lethal, but took time to put a man down. Kilmer figured he had about ten minutes before he bled out and lost consciousness. He would take great pleasure knowing that the last man he’d kill would be Jarrod Conrad. See you in hell, Professor.
Kilmer straightened up and was met by a startling sight. Rafie had now leveled his gun directly back at him.
“It’s over, Richard. I’m a federal agent…you’re under arrest. Give it up.”
“Nooo…ya motherfuckin’ traitor,” Kilmer bellowed. He was apoplectic to discover that his second-in-command was a double agent. His shriek of outrage reverberated through the night like the cry of a wounded animal sensing the hunter, closing for the kill. “Yer a mug! I’ll cut yer heart out,” he said, spitting blood. Kilmer drew a knife and staggered toward Rafie, meaning to make good on his threat.
At that same moment, shots rang out from multiple directions. Rafie fired a shot at Kilmer’s head, a crimson spray of blood and brains erupting from his skull as the bullet entered just below his right eye. Two other shots hit him almost simultaneously in the torso-the frontal shot arched him backward but was stopped by his body armor; the. 50-caliber round from the tank’s gunner, however, entered his back, ripping the vest and both arms off his body. What remained of Richard Kilmer collapsed in a dead heap and lay twitching for several seconds. Then he drew his last breath.
“It’s your choice, Terry,” Rafie yelled over the din of rumbling tanks and sirens, still blanketing the frenetic commotion all around. He was pointing his gun at Ventura now, who stood frozen by the unexpected discovery that Rafie was an undercover federal agent. “Think it through, Terry,” he paused. “Two other shots hit Richard from the front and from behind. You’re surrounded.”
No one could have predicted what happened next. The Lincoln Navigator, with its windshield peppered and headlights shot out, suddenly plowed nonstop into the back of the Peterbilt, hitting it with such force that everyone standing lost their balance. The airbags deployed, hiding the identity of whoever might have been driving but there was no subsequent movement from the vehicle. It remained wedged underneath the back of the trailer, steam hissing from its ruptured radiator.
The Navigator’s surprise impact caused Rafie to divert his attention momentarily to this unanticipated new threat. Terry Ventura seized the lapse in concentration to settle the score with the traitorous secret agent. He raised his gun to shoot both Rafie and Conrad but before he could take the shot, an unknown shooter’s bullet cut him down. From the way he was hurled backward, it was clear that an expert marksman with a high-powered weapon was systematically picking off the assailants-and it wasn’t anyone associated with the Navigator.
Agent Henry had joined Palmer outside the vehicle. He grabbed the spotter’s scope and was relaying vital information on the distance and direction of each shot. He had a perfect vantage point to identify misdirected shots and to offer alignment corrections.
When Palmer’s first shot went high and wide of the mark, he suggested aiming lower left to compensate. The second shot was centered but too low, hitting the target in the stomach. “Stay left, rise up two clicks, and you’ll hit center mass,” he said and watched confidently as the third shot drilled the shooter in the middle of the chest.
“Jesus-H…good shot, man, you tore him a new one. Rafie got off a head shot at the same time; the guy’s down for keeps.”
Henry kept the spotter’s scope steadily trained on the actions surrounding Rafie. All of a sudden, the Navigator rocketed into view. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed. “Marshall just slammed into the trailer. He rocked ’em hard. Damnit…didn’t see brake lights…he must’ve been hit. Stupid bastard!”
Although he saw the Navigator’s impact momentarily destabilize the trailer, Palmer never hesitated. The target’s knees buckled but quickly recovered, looking to shoot at Rafie. “Yeah, I see it,” he calmly replied, keeping his emotions in check. There was nothing worse than too much adrenaline when steadying a rifle. He placed the scope’s crosshairs on the target and said, “Okay, second shooter…shot’s away.” He took a slow, deep breath, held it, and pulled the trigger.
Palmer lost site of the hit from the rifle’s powerful recoil but could see from the way the man flew backward he’d hit his mark.
“Bull’s eye! Good shooting, ace!” Henry said, slapping his hand on the hood of the car. “Another direct hit…you’ve got the sights dialed now.”