they ought to be hearing bangs and yells and shots.
He bent, peered at the door. But the keyhole was blocked on the other side. His
lips came back in a feral snarl. He was still high on adrenaline. He held the
gun in his left hand and threw himself at the door.
He hit the wood, the door slammed open, he brought his right hand around to the
SIG’s grip, slapping it tight, his eye taking in the scene even as he squeezed
off.
No one had moved. The man he’d remembered as standing beside the entrance door
was still there, his M-16 held in both hands, aimed to his left, at the room in
general. Ryan’s shot changed all that. It hit the man in the chest and punched
him backward, mouth gaping, so that he collapsed against the wall, slumping and
leaving a thick red smear as he sank to the floor.
Ryan watched in admiration as J.B., still leaning with his back to the bar, his
coat open, his right hand resting on his belt, drew the Browning with shocking
speed. His arm jerked up and the Hi-Power barked and spat, its bullet slamming
one of the other black jackets over into a table. The table splintered under his
weight and the violent impact of his flailing body. His M-16 clattered to the
floor.
That was what saved the last man, who was close to the table and to his
heart-shot companion. The last man jumped away from the collapsing table and
stumbled, dropped his piece, then with a wild yell leaped for the door.
Ryan hammered a round at him but missed by an inch. Or less. In
adrenaline-boosted terror, the guy yanked the door and dived through it, the
door swinging shut behind him.
J.B. jumped toward the door. Ryan, running to him, yelled, “No bangs in the
street!”
J.B. stopped dead, as though mesmerized by a vision only he could see. Ryan,
running up the room full pelt, slowed to a halt, SIG raised.
The door had creaked open; in fact, the guy was pushing it inward with his body.
The guy staggered in the doorway as the door swung away from him. He teetered on
his heels, his arms half raised, his hands clawing feebly at nothing. He fell
backward and crashed to the carpeted floor.
Another figure appeared in the doorway. It was Sam, holding a silenced Walther
PP Super in her right hand. She stepped over the body, bent and heaved it away
from the door. She slammed the door, kept hold of the Walther.
She said, her voice husky but not panicky, “Main train’s gone off the air. We
were rapping with Cohn in War Wag One when he suddenly reported the convoy was
surrounded. Voice came on the net, demanded to talk to the Old Man. Then there
was a lot of interference. We relocated, heard this other guy say they’d nerved
the main train, they were all dead, finished, kaput, and unless the Old Man
threw in, the convoy’d get blitzed, too. Then there was more interference and
they cut out.”
She stopped, impassive.
“Dead line?”
“Dead as this goon here.” She gestured at the man on the floor. “We tried
everything. They’re off the air.”
J.B. shot a look at Ryan and Ryan sucked in air through his teeth, an icy
feeling running up his spine like electricity.
Had Teague copped nerve gas? But where from? Then Ryan thought, if we found
some, why not someone else, somewhere else?
Or was it maybe bluff? Had they merely axed the radio link somehow? But how
would they have done that? They could certainly throw in interference fuzz, but
not kill it dead unless…
Unless those in the main train really were dead.
And what about the Old Man? Was he dead and those with him, too? On reflection,
almost certainly not, and for one excellent reason.
J.B. lit up one of his thin black cheroots, his eyes behind his steel-rimmed
glasses narrowed in thought.
Ryan turned to the bar and said, “Do us a favor, Charlie. Get these stiffs outta
the way.”
“Just like that? I’ll wave my wand, Ryan.” Then she sighed and said, “Okay,