Before Marie could protest, he was on his feet and sprinting for the center of the chamber, not far from where Hussein lay spread-eagled like a sacrifice. He had barely gone three steps when the assault rifle roared again, only this time it was in concert with a second. He was vaguely aware of the 7.62-millimeter rounds drilling through the still air all around. The snipers were firing fully automatic, the spray and pray technique. There was a skill to leading a target, and he was betting his life that these shooters had skipped that lesson. Still, all it took was one lucky shot. He dove the last two meters like a baseball player stealing second, and hunkered down behind the control box for the tram.
He barely had time to catch his breath when the first of several rounds punched clear through the thin metal frame and exited dangerously close to where he was crouching. Twisting around, he scrambled for the more substantial cover of the bumper at the end of the tracks. The heavy steel frame rang with each impact, but the rounds did not penetrate.
When a break in the assault came, he risked a quick look around the edge of his shield. There were three of them now, Arab men wearing ragged civilian clothes, and curiously bareheaded. He couldn’t begin to guess how they had discovered the complex. Maybe they were loyalist insurgents, checking a known resupply base, or maybe they were local hoodlums, hired by Rebecca or Chiron to eliminate all witnesses to their treachery. He didn’t have time to wrestle with the question, but filed it away behind a curtain, along with the overwhelming sense of guilt at having brought young Hussein to his ignominious demise.
The shooters saw him a moment later and unleashed another volley. That was all the motivation he needed. He burst from behind the bumper and sprinted for the opposite side of the complex, toward the open maw of Laboratory Two. They chased him with bullets, and it wasn’t until the lead started blasting into the stacked munitions containers that he realized just how close they were coming. Then he was gone, vanished into the maze of crates that had camouflaged the lab where Saddam’s scientists had labored to develop a nuclear weapon.
The barrage ceased almost immediately and the gunmen began warily advancing. Kismet did not try to monitor their approach. If they even caught a glimpse of him, his only plan would fail. One of the Arabs unleashed a short, random burst into the lab, but his comrades chastised him, telling him not to waste his ammunition shooting at shadows, or at least that was Kismet’s best approximation. He could hear their steps, their breathing, and the sound of crates being moved as the men pressed deeper into the lab.
There was a loud bang as one of the shipping containers was upended only a few steps away from where Kismet was concealed. Too close. They were checking the crates to see if he was hiding in one.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
The men stayed close together, careful not to flag each other with their weapons, but keeping vigil in different directions. One of them kept checking to their rear to make sure that they had not already passed by their prey. They knew enough not to separate, dashing Kismet’s hopes of subduing one and seizing his weapon.
The trio left the cluster of empty boxes behind and pressed deeper into the lab. When they reached the table with the detonators, the leader of the group stopped so suddenly he almost dropped his rifle.
Kismet made his move. From his perch, prone and pressed flat atop the wall of stacked crates, he rolled toward the exit. But as his weight shifted, the box beneath him slid and all the cartons, like some toddler’s creation with building blocks, crashed outward. Kismet hit the stone floor hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He gasped for air, surrounded by the chaos his movements had triggered. The three gunmen were staring right at him.
The leader moved first, swinging the muzzle of his Kalashnikov toward Kismet. Breathing or not, he knew he had to move. As he ducked, bullets started shredding the wood and plastic containers that were now his only source of concealment. Packing foam showered down like confetti, but while none of the rounds found his flesh, a shard of wood lodged in the ravaged fabric of his shirt and pierced the skin of his back.
He caught a breath, which was a good thing, and reached the right doorpost of the lab. The gunmen were randomly spraying the area, but most of their fire was concentrated on the center of the jumbled cartons. Kismet spied his goal and waited for a break in fire. When the gunmen on his right paused to reload, Kismet sprang up.
“Nice knowing you, fellows.” He slammed his hand against the red button.
There was a crack as the stays were blown out of the way, followed by an ear-splitting shriek. The large metal guillotine gate dropped so quickly that Kismet jumped back, startled. The heavy panel smashed into the cluttered crates, blasting them to splinters as it fell relentlessly, unstoppably downward.
And then it stopped.
There was about half a meter of space above the groove in the floor, where the panel ought to have firmly settled after its brief one-way journey, and the bottom of the door itself. The smashed debris of the crates, though individually flimsy, were in concert just enough to hold open the door.
Kismet breathed an oath as he stared in disbelief at the opening. He swore again as a rifle muzzle peeked out from beneath the barrier and swung in his direction. But instead of ducking away from the weapon, he leaped forward. His foot stamped down on the exposed end of the gun, and the force of the blow rolled the front sight post at the business end of the weapon, causing it to twist in the man’s grip just as the trigger was pulled.
It was like stepping on a live wire. Flame jetted from the barrel as an explosion of gases and solid projectiles exploded into the stone floor. The close proximity of the discharge caused the weapon to slam back into the gunman’s forehead and Kismet almost stumbled again, but caught himself when the weapon fell silent. He immediately snatched the rifle up, shifting his grip from the scorching hot barrel to the wooden stock, and then put it to his shoulder. As he did, another AK-47 peeked out from under the door.
Kismet fanned the trigger, unleashing a burst at the opening. One of the bullets might have hit its target, but the rest found something even luckier. The lead projectiles smashed into the fragments that were bracing the doors, perforating them just enough that the constant pressure of the door caused them to finally explode outward. The door crunched down the remaining distance, decapitating the Kalashnikov and trapping the three gunmen inside a laboratory that was already starting to grow uncomfortably warm.
Kismet sagged against the steel barrier and let the muzzle of his captured rifle drop. Marie wasn’t where he had left her, but a movement in the shadows near the doorway to Laboratory Four, the only one in the complex he had not actually seen, caught his attention. Why was she moving? He took a step in that direction, but a burst of gunfire from the tunnel mouth drove him back.
“Damn it!” How many more of these guys are there?
He didn’t linger where he was. No sooner was the oath past his lips than he was running for the opening to Laboratory One. After all that had happened since Chiron’s betrayal, the sight of the fermentation tanks was strangely welcoming. He hastened behind the foremost one and with a great heave, rolled it over on its side. The noise of the hollow metal receptacle hitting the floor reverberated like a gong throughout the complex. Guess they’ll know where I am now.
He stood alongside the fermenter, near the double-thickness of metal that formed its base, and rolled it forward like an enormous wheel, out into the open. Rifle fire instantly hammered into the tank. The bullets punched right through its wall and slammed against the interior surface hard enough to create bulging dents in the exterior. A few of the rounds went completely through, missing Kismet by scant centimeters. As a shield, the fermentation tank left a lot to be desired. He decided to give his enemies something else to worry about. With one hand still steadying still turning the base, he held the AK-47 high and fired a burst left then right. Over the thunderous din he heard a shriek of agony, and knew that at least one effort to flank his position had been thwarted.