Jon swallowed hard, looking away. He checked their surroundings. They were about a third of the way along the runway — just a few hundred meters from the massive hangar at the southern end. An enormous tin-roofed warehouse stretched east not far behind them. There appeared to be only one entrance on this side, a solid-looking steel door with a keypad lock. His eyes narrowed as suspicion hardened into certainty. No one put that kind of fortress-like door on a run-of-the-mill storage facility. Nomura's secret nanophage lab must be somewhere inside. You could hide a dozen biochemical factories inside that vast, cavernous space and still have plenty of room left over.
The second of the huge flying-wing planes was rolling down the runway in their direction, slowly gathering speed as its propellers spun faster and faster. Jon could see the deadly canisters clustered beneath its single enormous wing. The third drone aircraft was stopped just outside the hangar, waiting for its turn in the takeoff pattern.
Gunfire erupted to the north, on the other side of the Black Hawk. Another guard screamed and fell back — riddled with bullets fired by Peter. As he toppled, the dying man triggered the Russian-made SA-16 SAM he had been trying to aim. The missile ignited. Trailing a dense cloud of gray and white smoke, it soared straight up, turned east, and then plummeted harmlessly to explode in the empty pastures beyond the perimeter fence.
Smith spotted more movement to the south, not far from the second aircraft. Three more gunmen, led by a much taller man, were advancing along the western edge of the runway — generally keeping pace with the oncoming drone plane. They were bounding in pairs, taking turns covering each other as they came forward.
He winced. Great, he thought. These guys were professionals. And they were being led the third of the superhuman Horatii.
“Watch your front, Jon!” Randi called. She gestured toward the open ground on the other side of the runway. A little knot of men in gas masks and respirators was falling back there, retreating from the battle raging around the tarmac. Most appeared to be unarmed. But two carried submachine guns slung over their shoulders, and they were dragging an older white-haired man between them. A man who was not wearing a gas mask. A man in handcuffs.
“I'll deal with the planes,” Smith said. He pointed toward the retreating men. “You take care of them!”
Randi nodded, seeing Jon already moving along the edge of the runway — heading toward the giant flying wing lumbering north. Smoke from the errant SAM launch wafted across the tarmac, cutting off her view of him.
Left alone, she jumped to her feet and sprinted across the wide bare stretch of oil- and jet fuel-stained concrete. One of the fleeing men saw her coming. He yelled a frantic warning to his companions. They threw themselves prone in the grass. The two guards tossed the old man down beside them and turned toward her. Their submachine guns came up.
Randi fired from the hip, squeezing off three-round bursts on the run. One of the guards spun away and fell heavily, bleeding from several wounds. The other shot back, firing off a full twenty-round clip from his Uzi.
The air around Randi was suddenly full of bullets and fragments of shattered concrete. She dived to the side. Something smashed into her left arm — hurling her backward. A ricochet tumbling off the concrete had hit hard enough to break her arm just above the elbow. White-hot agony sleeted up from the injury. She rolled away, desperately trying to get clear before the gunman could zero in and nail her.
Stunned to see her still alive, the guard yanked out his empty clip and fumbled for another.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, Randi brought her carbine up again. She fired another burst. Two copper-jacketed rounds slammed home, hurling the gunman onto his back in bloodred ruin.
She forced herself back to her feet and ran on across the runway. The unarmed men jumped up and scattered in front of her, running wildly in all directions. They all looked alike in their hooded gas masks. Suddenly the old man in handcuffs kicked out, tripping one of the fleeing men. Snarling, the old man rolled over onto the man he had knocked down — pressing him facedown into the tall, tangled grass.
Randi moved closer, aiming the carbine with her good hand. “Who the hell are you?” she snapped.
The old man smiled beatifically up at her. “I am Jinjiro Nomura,” he said quietly. “And this,” he nodded toward the figure squirming beneath him, “is Lazarus — the traitor who was once my son, Hideo.”
Scarcely able to believe her luck, Randi grinned back at the old man. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Nomura.” She kept the M4 aimed at the man writhing on the ground while Jinjiro climbed awkwardly to his feet.
“Now stand up and take off that gas mask,” she ordered. “But do it slowly. Otherwise I might just twitch and blow your head off.”
The younger man obeyed. Slowly, with exaggerated caution, he tugged off the mask and respirator — revealing the gray, shocked features of Hideo Nomura.
“What will you do with him?” Jinjiro asked curiously.
Randi shrugged her good shoulder. 'Take him back to the United
States for trial, I guess.' She heard a new burst of firing, this time from the north.
“Speaking of which, I suggest the three of us head back to the helicopter right this minute. This neighborhood seems to be getting distinctly unhealthy.”
Peter ghosted through the drifting haze of smoke, with his carbine cradled against his shoulder. He heard a metallic click close by and dropped quietly to one knee, searching ahead of him for the source of the sound.
A guard loomed up out of the slowly clearing pall. His hand was still on the firing selector for his German- made assault rifle, switching it from single-shot to fire three-round bursts. His mouth dropped open when he saw the Englishman aiming at him.
“Very careless,” Peter told him softly. He squeezed the trigger.
Hit by all three shots fired at close range, the guard crumpled into the blood-soaked grass.
Peter waited a few moments longer, allowing the smoke to clear. It rolled west toward the ocean, slowly shredding in the light wind. He scanned the open ground stretching before him. Nothing moved.
Satisfied, he turned and trotted back toward the helicopter.
White-faced with pain from her broken arm, Randi prodded her prisoner toward the waiting Black Hawk. She stumbled once and Hideo Nomura glanced swiftly back at her, with hatred written all over his face. She shook her head and lifted the M4, aiming right at his chest. “I wouldn't try that. Not unless you really believe you can rise from the dead. Even one-handed, I'm a very good shot. Now hop in!”
Walking behind her, Jinjiro chuckled — plainly enjoying his treacherous son's discomfiture.
The man who had called himself Lazarus turned and scrambled inside the helicopter. Standing by the door, Randi motioned him into one of the forward-facing rear seats. Scowling, he obeyed.
Peter loomed up beside her. He peered into the troop compartment at her prisoner. His eyebrows rose. “Nicely done, Randi. Very nicely done indeed.”
Then he looked around in growing unease. “But where on earth is Jon?”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Smith sprinted toward the four gunmen advancing alongside the rolling drone aircraft. They were still moving in pairs. At any given moment, two of them were prone — ready to provide covering fire for their comrades. Most of their attention was focused on the battle raging around the grounded Black Hawk, but they were sure to spot him soon enough.
The back of his mind yammered that this headlong charge was a particularly stupid form of suicide, but he furiously shoved those doubts away. He did not have any other options. He had to hit this enemy team quickly, before they spotted him, pinned him down with suppressive fire, and then came in for the kill.
His only real chance against these men was to seize the initiative and hold it. Their tactics showed that they were professionals, probably more of the veteran mercenary soldiers recruited to do the dirty work for Nomura's Lazarus operation. In a set-piece skirmish Smith might be able to take out one of them, possibly even two — but trying to fight all four of them at once would only be a good way to die quickly. Still, he knew that it was the presence among them of the third of the Horatii that tipped the scales toward this seeming recklessness.
