there was spiraling out of control — pushing and shoving against the fence and hammering furiously on the hoods and roofs of the stalled Secret Service convoy. Unwilling to provoke the enraged mob any further, the real federal agents had retreated inside their locked vehicles. And even if the Teller Institute security guards opened the gate to let them in, the protesters would pour through at the same time. He swore softly. “Take a look, Frank. I don't think the cavalry is coming. Not this time.”
“Then let's hold here,” Diaz argued. He jerked a thumb at the SUVs parked behind them. “That's their line of escape. Let's make 'em come through us to get away.”
Smith shook his head. “Too risky. First, these guys may be dead-enders who don't plan to leave. Second, they know we're out here by now. These guys are pros. They must have alternate escape routes, and there are just too many other ways for them to get away — maybe a helo landing on that big flat roof up there, or more vehicles waiting outside the fence. Third, these weapons”—he nodded at both the MP5 submachine gun he had captured and Diaz's shotgun — “don't give us enough firepower to stop a determined attack. If we let the bad guys run a set- piece battle, they're going to roll right over us.”
“Ah, crap,” the Army veteran sighed, rechecking the loads for his Remington. “I hate this John Wayne shit. They don't pay me enough to be a hero.”
Smith bared his teeth in a tight, fierce grin. “Me, neither. But we're it. So I suggest you shut up and soldier, Sergeant.” He breathed out. “Are you ready?”
Grim-faced but determined, Diaz gave him a thumbs-up.
Cradling the MP5, Smith sprinted for the right side of the Institute's huge main doors. His stomach muscles tensed, expecting the sudden, tearing agony of a bullet fired from inside the main lobby. There was only silence. Breathing fast, he flattened himself against the sun-warmed adobe wall.
Diaz joined him a second later.
Smith rolled around the corner of the door, moving the submachine gun through a steady, controlled arc as he sighted along the barrel. Nothing. The huge room appeared emptv. I Ialf-crouched, he moved forward and took cover behind a stretch of waist-high marble railing. Caught in a gentle breeze from the open doors, papers fluttered off the Institute's registration and information desks and swirled lazily across the tiled floor.
He started to poke his head over the railing.
“Get down!” Diaz roared.
Smith sensed a shape moving in the corridor off to his left. He threw himself flat just as the gunman opened up — firing rapid aimed shots at him with a 9mm pistol. Rounds hammered the marble right over his head, sending jagged chips of shattered stone flying through the air. One sharp-edged fragment sliced a thin red line across the back of his right hand.
Lying prone, with the stock of the MP5 braced against his shoulder, Jon fired back, shooting in controlled three-round bursts. From the open doorway Diaz began firing solid slugs from his twelve-gauge shotgun. Each slug tore huge chunks out of the Institute's adobe walls.
Smith rolled out from behind the railing. A pistol bullet cracked right past his head. Damn. He rolled faster and then stopped himself suddenly, lying prone again — but this time with a clear view right down the corridor.
Jon could see the gunman staring straight at him. They were less than fifty feet apart. It was the sturdy, serious-looking man who had said his name was Farrows. The supposed Secret Service agent was down on one knee, with a SIG-Sauer pistol extended in a two-handed shooting grip, still firing steadily. Another bullet punched into the floor close by Smith's head, spraying small bits and pieces of broken tile across the side of his face.
He ignored the stinging impacts and breathed out. The MP5's forward sight steadied on the gunman. He squeezed the trigger. The submachine gun stuttered three times. Two rounds missed. The third hit Farrows in the face, blowing a hole right out the back of his skull.
Smith scrambled to his feet and raced to the foot of the U-shaped staircase leading up to the Institute's second floor. Three of the enemy down so far, he thought. But how many more to go?
Diaz sprinted through the lobby and went prone not far away, covering the first flight of stairs with his shotgun. “Where to now, Colonel?” he called softly.
That was a good question, Smith thought grimly. Much depended on what the intruders intended. If they were set on holding the research staff as hostages, most of them would be holed up in the Institute cafeteria— not far down the corridor from where Farrows lay dead. But if this was a hostage situation, charging in headlong was likely to get far too many innocent people killed.
Somehow, though, Smith doubted hostage taking was the goal here. This whole operation was too elaborate and too precisely timed for something so simple and low-tech. Coming in disguised as Secret Service agents on a bomb sweep seemed aimed primarily at gaining unimpeded access to the labs.
He made his decision and pointed to the ceiling.
Diaz nodded.
Moving in alternate bounds, with one man always readv to provide covering fire while the other went forward, Jon Smith and the Institute security guard began climbing the central staircase.
“LAZARUS LIVES! NO TO NANOTECH! LAZARUS LIVES! NO TO DEATH MACHINES! LAZARUS LIVES!”
Malachi MacNamara was jostled ever closer to the Institute's perimeter fence, borne along by the shouting, chanting mob. He scowled. He was a man who disdained displays of wild, unreasoning emotion — a man who felt far happier alone in the wilderness than trapped like this in a sea of his fellow humans. For now, though, he knew he could only move with this maddened tide. If he tried to stand against the pressure for too long, he would only be swept off his feet and trampled to death.
Still, he thought icily, that did not mean he had to play the utterly passive puppet.
He swung his elbows through a series of short, vicious arcs, hammering at the ribs of those closest to him. Frightened by his cold rage, they fell back — giving him just enough room to risk a look back at the protest stage. It was deserted. His pale eyes narrowed in sudden calculation. The Lazarus Movement radicals who had whipped this mass of more than ten thousand demonstrators into uncontrolled wrath had vanished.
Where were they?
Even this deep in the mob, the lean, weather-beaten Canadian was tall enough to see past the outer fringes of the crowd. Two of the Secret Service vehicles were edging slowly back down the access road. Dented hoods and car roofs, crumpled fenders, and smashed w indshields testified to the fury of the human storm through which they had passed. There were also small knots of worried-looking New Mexico State Police troopers and Santa Fe County sheriffs, most backing slowly away to avoid triggering an all-out riot. Lured by the prospect of shooting dramatic footage they could feed to the national and international networks, several local TV crews were much closer to the stamping and shouting protesters.
MacNamara turned his gaze away. His eyes hunted through the angry crowd for a glimpse of the Movement activists he sought. They were nowhere to be found. Curiouser and curiouser, he thought coolly. Rats deserting a sinking ship? Or predators slipping away to make a new kill somewhere else?
The pressure of the mob along the fence was growing. At places the barrier bulged inward, stretching dangerously under the impact of so many bodies. The gray-uniformed security guards behind the fence were already edging backward, retreating toward the relative safety of the Institute's main building. The Canadian nodded to himself. That was not terribly surprising. No one but a fool would expect a small force of part-time policemen to face a rampaging crowd often thousand out in the open. Doing so would be choosing a particularly pathetic form of suicide.
He stiffened suddenly, spotting several men moving with grim, determined purpose through the press of hate-filled faces, red and green banners and placards, and upraised fists. They were the young toughs he had seen arriving the day before, each carrying the same long duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
Shielded from police scrutiny by the crowd, the young men reached the fence. Down went their duffels and out came long-handled bolt cutters. They started slicing through metal link after metal link, cutting from top to bottom with practiced speed and efficiency. Soon whole sections of the Institute's security fence tore away and came crashing down. Hundreds and then thousands of demonstrators poured through the gaps, loping across the open ground toward the huge sand-colored science building.
“LAZARUS LIVES! LAZARUS LIVES! LAZARUS LIVES!” they clamored. “NO TO NANOTECH! NO TO DEATH MACHINES!”
