Reston had released all of the creatures into their habitats just after the call had come on the cell line from a Sergeant Steve Hawkinson, the man who was leading the surface effort. He had informed Reston only that two Umbrella teams—nine men, including himself—were starting a sweep of the compound, and that the fugitives' transport had been spotted; the three were still in the area unless they had a second vehicle, a highly unlikely possibility. Reston told him that the entry's camera had been covered by one of them and asked for an update as soon as anything turned up, then settled in to watch the show.
He poured himself another brandy as he watched the three weave slowly through the trees, John with his weapon pointed above, the other scanning the shadows around them. ...
He needs a name, too. We have Henry, John, and— Red? His hairisson of reddish.
Not really, but it would do, just as "Dae" worked for the Avis. There was no relation to pterodactyls, of course, and the "Av" was for "Aves," birds—and in fact, the Dacs were closer to bats than anything. There were just too many in the mammal series already. At the request of Jackson himself, the specimen growers had added some new classifications for clarity's sake, using some of the secondary contributors to that series's gene pool. Like the Spitters, who were closer to snakes than to goats, but'd been labeled Ca6s, for Capra, because of the cloven hooves ...
...and the Dacsdolook like pterodactyls, or at least our modern concept of them,Reston thought, looking at the screen that showed the cage entrance. Two of the animals were still inside. The streamlined, muscular body and the narrow beak, the bone "comb" on the top of the head, the fibrous wings ... they were really quite elegant in a brutal sort of way. The two in the massive behind-the-scenes "cave" were clearly agitated by all of the excitement, crawling
back and forth on their folded wings and swinging their heads from side to side. Reston didn't know much from the biological end, but he knew that they hunted by motion and scent, and that just two of them could take down a horse in under five minutes.
Not so efficient being shot at, however.
It didn't make a difference, really. The Avis had been created for third-world situations, where machetes still outnumbered rifles. Itwastoo bad that they died so quickly, the handlers would be disappointed by the loss—but they would have been tested against firepower eventually anyway.
And speaking of...
The three men were getting close to the clearing, moving out of the north camera's view. That would be where the Dacs would make their play. Reston leaned in to watch, realizing that the scenes he was recording would make his career—and that regardless of that fact, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
David opened fire as soon as the thug's light found them, hearing the single shot of a weapon down below—
—and felt the splintering of wood to his left, a flurry of splinters spraying his arm. He was too intent on taking out the shooter to stop firing, but he knew with a burst of dread that they were about to fall, that both young women would smash into the concrete if he didn'tdosomething—
—and then he was falling, too, the wooden slats beneath him disappearing suddenly, plunging him through the icy dark. David held on to his weapon, pushing his arms out and bending his knees in the half second of blind free fall—
—and then his knees connected with cardboard, with an unseen box that collapsed beneath his weight, sparing him the worst of it. Instantly he was on his feet, turning toward the other flashlight, which was still shining out from halfway across the warehouse, the first man already down. No time to check on Rebecca, on Claire—the raised shouts from outside were almost upon them.
The torch-bearer went down in the short line of bullets David sent from the M-16, a guided four-foot arc across the darkness behind the light. The flat echoes of the rounds blasted through the alleys between boxes, and as the flashlight dropped, a single grunt of pain and surprise going down with it, David turned the gun toward the open door.
Come on, then—
Rattatattatt—
Submachine gun fire from outside, a sweep across the door ... but no one stepped inside. David moved left and sent a burst from his weapon in response, not expecting to hit anyone, the bullets crashing uselessly into the door's frame. He needed to buy them time, even if only a few seconds.
"Uunh,"a soft, feminine groan from behind him.
"Rebecca! Claire! Sound off'!" He whispered harshly, still watching the pale, empty square of open door.
"Here. Claire, I mean, I'm okay but I think she's hurt—"
Dammit!
David felt his heart skip a beat and he backed up a step, his thoughts racing, a knot of dread in his belly. It had been less than a half-minute since the first shot, but the Umbrella team would have already surrounded the building, if they were any good at all. They needed to get out before the attackers were firmly organized.
"Claire, come to me, follow my voice—I need you covering the door. You see anyone, even a shadow, shoot to kill. Understood?"
He heard her shuffling movements as he spoke and
reached out for her as she came close, grabbing hold of her arm.
"Wait," he said, and let another burst from the gun fly, hammering into the wall near the door. He immediately unslung the M-16 and handed it to Claire as the submachine gun returned fire, a rattle of
"You can use this?"
"Yeah—" She sounded anxious but steady enough.
"Good. As soon as I say, we're going to start moving for the west door; you'll be covering us."
He was already turning toward the corner, where Rebecca would be. He heard another muffled murmur of pain and fixed on it, moving quickly, dropping to his knees and feeling for the injured girl. He felt silkiness beneath one hand, Rebecca's hair, and ran both hands over her head, feeling for the sticky warmth of blood.
"Rebecca, can you speak? Do you know where you're hurt?"
A cough—and then he felt her fingers touch his arm, and knew she was all right even before she spoke.
"Back of my head," she said, softly but clearly. "Possible concussion, cracked hell on my tailbone, limbs seem okay . . ."
"I'm going to help you up. If you can't walk, I'll carry you, but we have to go now—"
As if to prove his words, there was another rattle from the gunman outside—
—and a shout that had him moving even before it was finished.
"Fire in the hole!"
David spun, leapt up from his crouch and tackled
Claire from behind, calling out, "Close your eyes—" as he closed his own in case of incendiary, praying it wasn't a shrapnel—
—and the\vhumpof a grenade launcher, followed by a loudpopand hiss told him it was gas. He moved off of Claire, felt her sit up beside him, heard her ragged, frightened breathing.
God, not sarin, soman, let them want us alive—
Within seconds, David's nose and eyes started to water viciously and he felt a wave of relief. Not nerve gas; they'd used a CN or CS tear gas. The Umbrella team was going to smoke them out.
"West door," David said, and Claire choked out an affirmative, the chemical compound disseminating quickly into the frigid air, an effective but thankfully nonlethal weapon.
He turned back and felt a hand brush across his chest.
"I can walk," Rebecca said, coughing, and David threw her arm across his shoulders anyway and started for the door, moving as fast as he could through the black. He heard Claire gasping but holding her own, keeping up with them.