from the bow of a carrier, his chair flying off the back of the stage;
he hit Boychenko low and from behind, driving the man forward into the
podium and the forest of microphones, then toppling man and podium
together in a splintering crash.
Gunfire cracked, a thundering, stuttering fusillade as the trench-coated
assassins opened up with their weapons on full auto. Tombstone heard the
bullets snapping through the air overhead or thumping loudly into the
heavy podium. Microphones clashed together, and the sound system gave a
shrill squeal of feedback that mingled with the steady crack-crack-crack
of automatic weapons. Shrieks from the audience rose to a shrill,
terror-stricken cacophony mingled with cries of pain.
Everything was chaos, raw and uncontrolled. He was lying on top of
Boychenko, one arm thrown protectively over the Russian’s back. Rolling
to the side, he looked up, past the toppled podium and off the stage.
One gunman was going down under the combined gunfire from Abdulhalik and
another security man. The man with the pistol was out of sight at the
moment, but Tombstone could see the other assault-rifle-armed assassin
clearly as he ran up to the edge of the stage, firing wildly as he ran.
Abdulhalik staggered, dropped his weapon, and collapsed onto his back,
legs sprawling. Captain Whitehead flailed his arms and fell off the back
of the stage, his face a mask of blood. Tarrant was down, too. .. and
Sandoval. The assassins had sprayed the entire front row of VIPS,
killing or wounding eight or ten of them in one long burst.
There was the man with the pistol, collapsing under a hail of automatic
fire as he exchanged shots with the security guards. But the running man
was closer, much closer now, so close now Tombstone could see his bushy
mustache, see the wild light in his Oriental-looking eyes. Reaching the
stage, he leaned over the railing, aiming directly at Tombstone and
Boychenko from a range of less than five feet.
He pulled the trigger and nothing happened.
Tombstone was up and on his feet in the same instant, scooping up an
overturned metal chair, pivoting, and hurling it as hard as he could.
The gray chair struck the gunman and momentarily tangled with his
weapon, knocking him back a step and confusing him. Tombstone was in the
air right behind the chair, lunging for the man’s throat even as he
tossed the chair aside and tried to bring his AKMS to bear once more. He
hit the man high, hands lancing toward the throat, his arms held stiff
before him; the impact of his legs splintered the frail structure of the
railing as he crashed through and knocked the assassin down. The gunman
continued fumbling with his weapon, dragging a loaded magazine out from
inside one of the capacious pockets of his trench coat. Tombstone
battled him for that heavy black magazine, wresting it away from him,
picking it up like a flat rock and bringing it down on the side of the
man’s head with tremendous force. The gunman raised his arm, trying to
block the attack. Tombstone struck him again, and the man’s head lolled
to the side.
Tombstone looked up, blinking. People were still screaming, shrieking,
and running in all directions as security troops converged on the stage.
Half a dozen civilians were down on the grass, faces and clothing
smeared with bright scarlet blood. Pamela!. ..
There she was, apparently all right, kneeling on the grass a few yards
away next to the body of her cameraman. She looked up and locked gazes
with him, but there was no recognition in her eyes, none at all. She
looked like she was in shock.
Then a half-dozen troops arrived, muscling Tombstone aside and pouncing
on the semiconscious would-be assassin with an almost gleeful
viciousness.
“Don’t kill him!” Tombstone shouted as one soldier hammered at the man
with his rifle butt, but he didn’t even know if any of them spoke
English. He reached out and grabbed the soldier’s arm before he could
strike again. “Nyet!” Tombstone yelled. The soldier spun, face a twisted
mask of anger. “Nyet!” he yelled again. Damn, how did you say “Don’t