Infiltrator

glanced at her, then looked back at the road.

'I have no desire to commit suicide, Sarah,' he said firmly. 'If we're going for Cyberdyne I'll need a day, at least, to set it up. We still need to find out exactly where it is.'

What do I need him for? Sarah wondered numbly, staring straight ahead.

Listening to him has screwed this up from the get-go. If she was genuinely paranoid, as she'd been diagnosed, she'd suspect von Rossbach of being sent by Skynet.

But she couldn't blame him for this mess. She'd gone along with every suggestion, allowing herself to be persuaded against her better judgment. There's nobody to blame for that except myself, she thought.

Her eyes slid sideways, regarding the man beside her. He might yet be useful.

She could scarcely walk onto Cyberdyne property all by herself.

Slowly she dragged herself back up onto her metaphorical feet. The wound might feel mortal, but she wasn't close to dead yet. Something those bastards at Cyberdyne were going to learn to their sorrow. Sarah Connor was a long way

from defeated.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ADVANCED TECHNOLOGY SYSTEMS,

SACRAMENTO: THE PRESENT

As the lights went out Jordan knew that—once again— Serena's info had been good. His mouth began to go dry and his hand automatically went to the Clock bolstered under his armpit, excitement pumping into his blood, and driving out the drowsy boredom of the stuffy, silent suite of offices.

Ideally he wouldn't have to use the gun; so far he never had. But things are rarely ideal for the good guys when they're dealing with Sarah Connor.

The Three Stooges stood around like furniture. They didn't move, they didn't talk. They watched the door. Occasionally, as if making a concession, they blinked.

Never thought I'd miss their scanning the horizon, Jordan thought. They were downright lively then.

The office had only one unblocked window, which was in the president's office at the back of the building. Feeling a need to get away from the creeps, Jordan decided to check it out.

They're just as likely to come down from the roof as up the stairs, he reasoned. In fact that's what he would probably do. Not that he'd ever gone in for that rah-rah commando stuff that some agents loved. He suspected that Sarah Connor did.

They'd sent the few employees there home and the dark office was full of suspicious shadows cast by the emergency lights and eerily quiet as he moved through it. Already the air seemed to be going stale. A rectangle of gray light shone through the frosted glass in the president's door and brightened the area around it slightly.

Jordan listened, then quickly opened the door and stood back, heart pounding, even though he'd really expected the room to be empty.

It was. He moved to the window, and standing back out of sight, studied the parking lot below. It, too, was empty.

C'mon, c'mon, he thought. Where the hell are you? He moved to the other side of the window and checked out the lot from that angle. Still nothing. With a sigh he started back toward the front office.

A flash and the percussive burst of a grenade followed by the sudden sharp pops of gunfire brought him up to a run. The front office had been miraculously spared

—except for the receptionist's heavy desk, which was scrap. But there was no fire and his backup were all on their feet and heading through the door.

A sensation like a bolt of electricity shot through him when he saw a piece of shrapnel sticking out of the back of Lewis's naked head. Jordan fumbled a step at the sight. The three moved out into the corridor single file, then, as one, they each brought up their guns and fired. More gunfire met theirs in the hall. There was the sound of a machine pistol and a shotgun's heavy thudding boom, and the slight sharp nose-crinkling smell of burnt nitro powder.

Jordan sped up. He reached the door just in time to see the three of them aim at a boy collapsed on the floor.

'Are you insane?' Jordan shouted. He pushed his way between Lewis and the kid on the floor. 'Get them,' he ordered, pointing toward the stairway. 'I'll take care of the prisoner.'

Jordan felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as the three froze. One he could take, but not three. If they decided to take him out—and it sure looked like they were thinking about it—there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop them.

Then they turned and jogged down the hallway without a backward glance. The piece of shrapnel in Lewis's scalp came loose and hit the floor with a tiny ping!

It wasn't until then that Jordan realized that Lewis's whole front had been a mass of blood, his shirt hanging in patches where it hadn't been pounded into the raw meat of his chest. Which meant that Lewis ought to be screaming, or possibly dying of shock and blood-loss…

Jordan put the sight firmly from his mind and knelt beside the boy; Lewis couldn't be that badly hurt, or he wouldn't be moving so well. This had to be John Connor—her son. The boy who was supposed to save humankind from the machines.

The kid had crashed headfirst into the wall; the plasterboard was dented and there was blood in his hair and on the floor when Jordan turned him over. There was a wound in his shoulder, too.

No time for that, Jordan told himself. He hoisted the boy up and pulled him onto his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Then he headed for the back stairway. He

didn't know just what was going on with those three, but he had no intention of letting them near John Connor if he could help it. He was—had been—FBI, not part of some cowboy kill-for-hire outfit.

As he came out into the parking lot he fumbled one-handed for his keys and hit the button on the key ring that unlocked the doors. He opened the back door and awkwardly laid the boy down on the backseat. He was pushing the kid's legs inside when Bob Harris came around the corner and froze.

Jordan jumped into the car and rolled himself over the seat into the driver's side.

With a shaking hand he jammed the key into the ignition, thrilled that it was the right key, started the car, and backed up. Then he peeled rubber as he sped into the street, leaving skid marks and a low plume of black smoke behind him. The back door slammed shut and the kid half fell off the seat behind him. Shit!

Jordan thought. I should have just put him on the floor in the first place.

He pressed his foot onto the accelerator and ignored everything he knew about responsible driving. Bob's big hand hit the fender with an audible thump. Dyson jumped and looked in the rearview mirror. His erstwhile backup's face was as calm as if he were having a cup of coffee with friends. His arms pumped and he came even with the car once again and reached toward the door handle.

Jordan checked the speed. Thirty-five. Jesus, God! he thought, and pressed down on the accelerator. Bob seemed to be keeping up with ease. Once more Jordan pushed the gas and they finally sped away from the big man. Forty miles an hour. Dyson's breath was hissing between his teeth and he felt light-headed, almost faint. What the hell was that? he wondered. What in the hell was that?

People could do insane things when hopped up on adrenaline, he reminded

himself. But why? What could the Connors possibly have done to them that's worse than what they did to me? What would drive a man to run forty miles an hour to commit murder? Because they were going to kill John Connor, of that Jordan had no doubt.

And in spite of everything, I don't want to kill him, or his mother. See them in jail until they rotted, sure. He'd gladly see that day come. But he wasn't about to murder a kid! Not even Sarah Connor's son.