Then I assess my own personal situation. I have some pretty severe bruising on my ribs and back, and have suffered two fairly significant concussions in as many days. I’ve also been on the business end of a car bomb less than twenty-four hours ago, so it’s safe to say I’m not exactly firing on all cylinders physically.
I consider his proposal a moment longer. “Nah,” I say, pulling the trigger twice.
I aim at his chest, but because he’s standing slightly side-on in his boxing stance, the first bullet grazes across him and hits his shoulder, doing nothing but making him stagger backward a little.
The second bullet, however, hits him in the face. His head disappears in a cloud of pink mist that sprays the ground behind him. His body drops with a dull thud. I tuck the gun into my waistband and pick up the phone, dialing Josh again.
“Sorry about that,” I say as he answers.
“What happened?” he asks. “Have you been making friends again?”
“Gene Salikov just started shooting at me because he figured out I’d killed his sister.”
“You’ve taken out Natalia? How?”
“I knocked her out, shot her in the leg, and locked her in one of the furnace rooms. I’d like to think that’s game over.”
“I’m assuming Gene’s beef with you has now been resolved amicably?”
“Gene no longer has a head.”
There’s a moment’s silence before he responds.
“Yeah… that’d do it.”
I make my way out of the control room and down the main corridor toward the stairs that will lead me up to the courtyard outside.
“You had any luck with Clark or Schultz?” I ask.
“I got a hold of Clark, but he’s not convinced. He says their intel can’t be that wrong.”
“It is, trust me. If they send the cavalry in here, everyone will die, Josh. Tell him to swallow his pride, reprimand his intelligence division and pull all the ground forces way back.”
I climb the last flight of stairs, push open the metal door, and step outside into the yard. The glare of the sun stings my eyes after being underground for so long. I squint until they adjust to the light. I look around, but I can’t see any sign of Ketranovich or Clara.
“How long ‘til they get here?” I ask.
“Just under twenty minutes,” replies Josh.
“Shit. I’ve lost The Mad Colonel and his bitch of a daughter. I’m assuming he has the detonator with him.”
“Hold up. Daughter?”
“Oh, yeah — forgot to mention that, didn’t I? Clara is Ketranovich’s daughter.”
“Jesus Christ. I officially hate her.”
“Join the club.”
I hear the mechanical groan of the hangar doors opening again to my right.
“Scratch that — I’ve found them. Do what you can to buy me some time,” I say before I hanging up.
I run over to where my Berettas are still lying on the ground, near the SAM sites. I pick them up just in time to see Clara emerge from the darkness on a motorcycle, with Ketranovich walking out behind her. They both stop to look at me before turning to look at each other, clearly panicked.
“Go!” yells Ketranovich.
I aim one of my guns and fire at the front tire of the motorcycle, causing Clara to slam her brakes on and slide to a halt.
“Don’t even think about it, either of you,” I say, aiming a Beretta at each of them.
“You’ve lost, Adrian Hell,” says Ketranovich. “You can’t stop this.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve said that already. And now you’re two Salikovs down and I’m still standing here, so I’d say I’m doing a pretty good job of winning so far.”
Clara revs her engine.
“Clara, I swear to God, I would give vital parts of my anatomy right now if it meant I could shoot you dead, so be a good girl and get off the fucking bike!”
Ketranovich raises his right hand into the air. He’s holding something in it.
“I don’t think so, Adrian Hell,” he says, before turning to Clara. “Get out of here. I will see this through to the end.”
After a split second’s hesitation, she nods and revs her engine again.
I’m looking at his hand.
“That’s right,” he says, seeing my concern. “This is the detonator.”
I lower my guns.
Ah, shit…
The detonator looks like a gun, but without the barrel. It resembles just the butt — a small, silver handle with the trigger inside a small, circular guard. It fits nicely in the palm of his hand. His finger hovers over the trigger, ready to squeeze.
I look back and forth between Ketranovich and Clara. I definitely don’t want to get blown to bits, but there’s no way I’m letting Clara escape either. Not after everything she’s done.
My hands tighten around the Berettas. I know I need to end things quickly. If GlobaTech and the U.S. army come marching in through the front door, I have no doubt Ketranovich would happily kamikaze himself to take them all out. Such an attack on domestic soil against U.S. troops would require a proportionate response by the government. Their logical target would be Russia, given that’s where Ketranovich is from.
And we all know how a conflict between America and Russia would turn out.
So here I stand. The sun’s beating down on me relentlessly. The light breeze swirls sand and dust around us that occasionally stings my eyes. My mind is working overtime to find an outcome that doesn’t involve a third World War. If Clara manages to get out of here on that bike, I’ll never see her again. If Ketranovich moves his finger two millimeters, bits of me are going to land in Montana.
I sigh, seeing only one option.
As a wise man once said: fuck it.
Time slows down for me as I raise both Berettas, aiming one at Clara’s head and the other at Ketranovich’s right hand. Everything I've been through, everything I've endured, every bullet fired, and every drop of blood spilt… It all comes down to this.
For some reason, Ennio Morricone’s theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly starts playing through my mind.
“Drop the detonator,” I say. “Or I’ll kill your daughter.”
“Drop your guns, or I’ll kill us all, right here, right now,” counters Ketranovich.
Well, that worked.
I check my aim on both guns and take deep breath, keeping my poker face on as much as I can. Either this is the smartest or the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. If I get it right, you could argue I’ll have saved the world from war, which is good to have on your résumé… However, if I get it wrong, well… I’ll most likely be dead, so people can think whatever the fuck they want.
I take one last deep breath and hold it. My heart rate is nice and steady. The adrenaline is at bay — for the time being.
I slowly breathe out as I squeeze the trigger in my left hand. The bullet covers the distance between Ketranovich and me in under a second and hits his forearm roughly two inches below his wrist. A thin stream of blood erupts from the impact, and the gunshot almost completely severs his hand. The detonator flies out of his grip and lands a few feet away from him, off to his right.
A split-second after I fire the first bullet, I squeeze the trigger in my right hand. I aim a couple of feet in front of the motorcycle, anticipating Clara’s sharp exit. The bullet strikes just above the front wheel as she steps on the gas, pushing the bike out to the left. She loses control and topples over the handlebars, landing awkwardly on her back and neck. She rolls over a couple of times and comes to stop a few feet away from the bike, face down in the dust making a low, muffled, groaning noise from inside her helmet.
I breathe a very audible sigh of relief and I rush over to Ketranovich — who’s on all fours, screaming. I kick him hard and flush in the ribcage. He rolls over on his back, clutching at his right forearm, which is leaking blood at a steadily increasing rate.