PharmaTech's lab. He had been shot twice in the head. Jon shook his head in regret.
Dick Pfaff and Bill Corimond lay dead not far away in that same hallway. Both of them had been shot multiple times at point-blank range. They had been the senior researchers in the Institute's own nanotech group. Their work had been aimed at developing small self-replicating devices that would consume oil spills without further damage to the environment.
The farther he walked, the more coldly furious Smith became. Parikh, Brinker, Pfaff, Corimond, Ukita, and the others had all been dedicated scientists and truth seekers. Their research would have yielded enormous benefits for the whole world. So now some terrorist sons of bitches had killed them and destroyed years of hard work? Well, then, he decided icily, he would do his damnedest to make sure those same terrorists paid dearly for their crimes.
He picked up the pace — trotting now. His eyes were narrow slits. Somewhere ahead there were men he needed to kill or capture.
He passed more corpses. The smoke was thicker now. The acrid stench stung his eyes and left his throat raw. He could feel the glowing heat from the uncontrolled fires raging in offices on both sides of the corridor. Some of the wood doors were starting to smolder. Smith ran faster.
At last he came to a side door that had been left propped half-open. He knelt quickly, checking for any tripwires that could trigger a booby trap. Seeing none, he eased through the doorway and stepped out into the open air.
Before him lay a scene that might have been one of the grotesque paintings of hell and devils and damnation so favored by medieval Christians. Thousands of terrified Lazarus Movement activists were streaming away from the Institute, scrambling wildly through its rock gardens of cactus, sagebrush, and wildflowers. Some staggered, reeled, and then dropped to their knees with loud, despairing wails. One by one they folded in on themselves. Smith stared at them in utter horror, appalled by what he saw happening before his very eyes. Hundreds of people were literally falling apart, dissolving into a reddish liquid sludge. Hundreds more had already been reduced to sad heaps of stained clothing and scraps of whitened bone.
For a moment he fought against an almost overpowering urge to turn and flee himself. There was something so awful, so inhuman, in what he saw happening to those people that it stirred every primitive fear he had thought long buried by training, discipline, and willpower. No one should die like that, he thought desperately. No man should have to watch himself rotting away while still alive.
With an effort, Smith tore his eyes away from the rotting flesh and mangled corpses strewn outside the Teller Institute. Pistol in hand, he scanned the panicked mob fleeing toward the perimeter fence, trying to pick out those who showed no fear — those whose movements were disciplined and sure. He spotted a group of six men walking steadily toward the fence. They were more than a hundred meters ahead of him. Four were clad in blue coveralls and lugged heavy equipment cases. Smith nodded to himself. Those had to be the specialists who had planted the bombs inside the Institute. The two remaining men, striding a few yards behind the others, wore identical charcoal gray suits. Each was armed with a short-nosed Uzi submachine gun. The shorter of the two was about Jon's own height, with short-cropped black hair. But the one who really caught his attention, the powerfully built auburn-haired man who seemed to be giving the orders, was at least a head taller than his comrades.
Smith started running again. He loped across the open ground, dodging the pathetic remains scattered here and there, closing rapidly on the retreating terrorists. He was within fifty meters or so when their chief, turning his head for a last satisfied look at the bomb-gutted and burning Teller Institute, saw him coming.
“Action! Rear!” the giant shouted, warning his men. He was already swinging to face Smith with his submachine gun gripped in both hands. He opened fire instantly, walking short bursts across the sand and scrub toward the running American.
Jon threw himself to the right, rolling on his shoulder. He came back up on one knee with the Beretta aimed in the right general direction. Without waiting for the sights to settle on his target, he squeezed off two shots. Neither came that close, but at least they forced the big man to drop behind a clump of sagebrush.
Another Uzi burst pulverized the ground right behind Smith, kicking up huge dirt clods. He swiveled. The black-haired gunman was coming up on his flank, firing as he ran.
Jon swung the Beretta through a wide arc, leading the other man by just a hair. He breathed out calmly and fired three times. His first shot missed. The second and third shattered the terrorist's leg and smashed his right shoulder.
Screaming in pain, the black-haired man stumbled and went down. Two of the men in coveralls dropped their equipment cases and ran to help him. Immediately the tall auburn-haired man popped up from behind the sagebrush and began shooting again.
Smith felt an Uzi round punch through the lining of his leather bomber jacket. The superheated air trailing the near miss tore a searing line of fire across his ribs. He rolled again, trying frantically to throw off the big man's aim. More bullets clipped the sand and dry vegetation all around him. Expecting to get hit any second, he fired back with the Beretta while rolling, snapping off several unaimed shots in a desperate bid to force the other man back into cover.
Still rolling, Smith landed behind a large rock half-buried in a patch of tall wheatgrass. He went prone. Submachine-gun fire hammered the small boulder.
The noise of a powerful engine roared above the sound of gunfire. Warily Jon raised his head for a quick look. He saw a mammoth dark green Ford Excursion accelerating through one of the gaps in the fence. The SUV veered left, heading straight for the skirmish. Hundreds of panicked protesters ducked out of its path as it bounced over the broken ground at high speed.
Brakes squealing, the vehicle slewed round and skidded to a stop next to the small band of terrorists. The cloud of dust thrown by its tires hung low in the air, drifting slowly downwind. Protected by the SUV's bulk, the four explosives experts tossed their equipment cases into the back, shoved the wounded gunman into one of the rear seats, and scrambled inside themselves. Still firing short aimed bursts in Smith's direction, the auburn-haired giant backed away slowly toward the getaway vehicle. He was smiling now, his eyes alight with pleasure.
That murderous son of a bitch! Jon's cold fury suddenly flared into white-hot rage, erasing any instinct for self-preservation. Without stopping to think more clearly, he stood straight up, bracing the Beretta in a target shooter's grip.
Surprised by his boldness, the tall man stopped shooting controlled bursts and went to full auto. The Uzi chattered wildly, climbing higher with every round it fired.
Smith felt bullets ripping the air close to his head. He ignored them, choosing instead to focus entirely on his target. Fifty meters was near the outside edge of his effective pistol range, so concentration was vital. The Beretta's sights slid down on the big man's massive chest and stayed there.
He squeezed the trigger rapidly, firing as many shots as quickly as he could without spoiling his aim. His first bullet punched a hole in the front passenger side door, just inches from the auburn-haired giant's hip. The second smashed the window next to his elbow.
Jon frowned. The Beretta was pulling to the left. He shifted his aim slightly and fired again. This 9mm round smashed the Uzi out of the terrorist leader's hands, sending it flying into the scrub far out of his reach. The bullet ricocheted off the SUV's hood in a shower of sparks.
Unnerved by the gunfire hammering his vehicle, the getaway driver stomped down hard on the accelerator. The Excursion's tires spun futilely for a second and then found some traction. The dark green SUV peeled out, skidded through another tight turn, and roared away toward the fence, leaving the tall auburn-haired man behind in a drifting spray of sand and dust.
For a moment the giant stood motionless, with his head cocked to watch his comrades abandon him. Then, to Smith's astonishment, he simply shrugged his massive shoulders and turned back to face the American. His face was now utterly devoid of any expression.
Jon moved closer, still aiming the Beretta at him. “Get your hands up!”
The other man just stood there, waiting.
“I said get your hands up!” Smith snapped. He kept walking, closing the range. He stopped about fifteen meters away, well inside the zone where he knew he could put even 9mm round exactly where he wanted it.
The auburn-haired giant said nothing. His bright green eyes narrowed. The look in them reminded Jon of one he had seen in a caged tiger padding back and forth past human prey it could not reach.
“And what will you do if I refuse? Kill me?” the tall man said at last.
