One of the two men he’d spotted lay faceup on the top landing in a spreading pool of blood. The second, a tough, middleaged Arab, was very much alive.
The Arab brought the submachine gun he was holding on line — ready to fire at point-blank range.
And Thorn swung the Winchester up through a vicious twohanded arc — slamming it into the other man’s face with enough force to shatter bone.
Screaming and clutching at the red, pulped ruin that had once been his face, the Arab dropped his weapon and toppled backward down the stairs.
Helen cautiously pushed open one pair of double doors with the barrel of her shotgun. Nothing. No reaction.
She kicked open the door and slid through into a hallway closed off by another set of double doors — these leading outside into the compound.
Blood trails on the linoleum showed that some of the wounded had fled this way. A guard room stood empty to her right.
Naturally, she thought coldly. The guards were all inside — and dead or dying. Except for the men she was after now.
Helen moved on down the hall, pushed through the second set of doors, and came out onto the sidewalk fronting the half-filled parking lot.
Submachine gun fire rattled in the distance drawing closer.
A single, echoing shotgun blast answered.
“Delta Three, this is Two. How’re you doing?” she asked.
“They’re pulling back through the gate, Helen,” Farrell replied, breathing heavily. “I can’t stop them.”
Helen spotted the retreating patrol. Two were half dragging a third man, while a fourth provided covering fire. They would be in among the parked cars and vans in just a few seconds.
Too bad for them.
She knelt, laid her shotgun aside, and rifled through her rucksack.
Her fingers closed on the cylindrical plastic surface of a pipe bomb.
Her lighter came out of one of her assault vest’s breast pockets.
The retreating guards were sixty meters away. Fifty-five. Fifty.
Helen lit the fuse, stood up, and hurled the pipe bomb toward the enemy patrol. It spun end over end through the air, fell a little short, bounced once, and rolled under a minivan just meters away from them.
Perfect.
She snatched up her shotgun and rucksack in one hand, yanked open the closest door, and threw herself prone into the hallway.
WHAMMM.
The pipe bomb detonated directly under the van’s gasoline tank. A fireball tipped with nails and torn pieces of metal and plastic roared outward-consuming everyone and everything in its path.
“Jesus,” Farrell said simply over the radio.
Helen looked back over her shoulder at the inferno raging outside the building. That ought to get a few official pulses finally pumping, she thought calmly.
She stiffened as Peter’s voice came over the circuit. “I’m at the top of the stairs to the basement. I may need some help with this.”
Helen sprinted toward the inner set of double doors, slinging the rucksack over her shoulder. She started reloading the shotgun as she ran. “Give me thirty seconds, Peter!”
The sound of gunfire faded away on the floor above. At last, Ibrahim thought.
He signaled one of the technicians. “Find out what’s happening!”
The technician, an older man, swallowed hard. He hustled out the door leading to the planning cell. And then stopped dead.
“Sir!”
Ibrahim hurried over. “What is it, ma?”
The gray-haired computer specialist lifted a shaking hand, pointing toward the stairs leading up.
Ibrahim froze. Talal lay dead on the steps. His mangled face was covered in blood.
Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
The sudden realization that he was on the verge of losing everything flooded through Ibrahim’s stunned mind. He grabbed the shaking computer technician, pulled him through the door, and brutally shoved him toward one of the control consoles.
“Activate that console! Now!”
Then he whirled toward the other man — the younger one with a shaved head and a gold loop through his eyebrow. “Seal that door! Shoot anyone who comes through it! understand?”
The young man nodded convulsively, his face ash-gray.
May Allah protect me, Ibrahim thought bitterly. All would not be lost.
He could yet inflict a massive death blow to his great enemy.
He moved to the secure phone linking him to Godfrey Field.
“This is Control One. Get me Deckert! Now!”
Peter Thorn led the way down the stairs, with Helen coming right behind him.
He turned the corner. The Arab he’d clubbed lay crumpled at the foot of the steps. A few more feet brought him out into a large room crowded with empty desks.
He stopped in sudden confusion. Was this it? Had they been wrong about the whole setup? Where the hell was Ibrahim’s control center?
“Peter,” Helen hissed — pointing her shotgun at a gray, unmarked door in the far corner.
Thorn nodded.
He moved closer. Helen drifted off to the side so that they approached the door from different angles.
Thorn put his back against the wall, leaned over, and gently tested the handle. It was locked. Well, well, what a surprise, he thought grimly.
At a hand signal, Helen moved into position — ready to cover him.
He raised his shotgun, now loaded with solid slugs, and fired twice — smashing the hinges, first the top and then the bottom.
Helen spun out, savagely kicked the door in, and spun back into cover.
From inside the room a pistol cracked twice — sending steeljacketed rounds screaming through the opening.
The stupid bastard’s firing high, Thorn thought. He dropped to one knee and then threw himself flat in the doorway with his shotgun angled up. A figure loomed in his sights — a young man, obviously terrified, but still holding a weapon.
Bad move.
Thorn pulled the trigger.
The slug caught the other man in the stomach and threw him back against some kind of equipment console. Eyes already glazing over in death, he slid to the floor, smearing blood across the console, and toppled sideways.
Helen flowed in through the doorway, yelling, “Hands up! Get your hands up!”
A second man, this one older, hurriedly tossed his pistol to the side and stuck his hands in the air.
Thorn scrambled upright and joined Helen inside.
“Eight. Four. Alpha. Two …” someone said, speaking rapidly, but precisely.
He swung toward the voice and saw a tall, slender, handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes speaking intently into a telephone. Ibrahim. That had to be Prince Ibrahim al Saud — the man responsible for all this carnage. Rage flared inside him.
Thorn aimed the shotgun at the Saudi. “Drop the phone!”
Ibrahim smiled thinly and shook his head. “Delta. Tango.
Five …”
Helen fired. She was less than three meters away, and the pellets from her triple-ought shotgun shell were
