only wheeze and vomit. Ryan leaned over the banister and shot him,
Ryan cocked an ear for any untoward sounds from below but could hear nothing through the closed door. He moved lightly downstairs, on the balls of his feet, still on adrenaline burn, the screen of his memory playing over the scene back in the bar. Unless they'd all moved around some, there was a guy standing in front of the entrance door at the far end of the room, and he had to be nailed first and foremost.
He could do it slowly or he could do it fast. If he did it slowly — if he opened the door, wandered casually into the bar, his piece hidden behind his back, and then threw a round at the guy by the outside door (or at least the guy who should be by the outside door) — there was always the chance of something going wrong, possibly badly wrong.
Those goons out there were young, undoubtedly nervy in a situation like this. Just Ryan walking out from the rear and no one else might spook them, then trigger them. There was always that chance.
If he did it fast, on the other hand — erupted into the room and hit at least one of them — the shock factor would be enormous, he knew. The remaining two goons would be thrown off balance. They'd be totally unnerved, ripe for slaughter.
If only he knew what the hell was going on in the bar. And the longer he waited in this lobby, the more twitchy those guys would get. By now they'd be thinking they ought to be hearing bangs and yells and shots.
He bent, peered at the door. But the keyhole was blocked on the other side. His lips came back in a feral snarl. He was still high on adrenaline. He held the gun in his left hand and threw himself at the door.
He hit the wood, the door slammed open, he brought his right hand around to the SIG's grip, slapping it tight, his eye taking in the scene even as he squeezed off.
No one had moved. The man he'd remembered as standing beside the entrance door was still there, his M-16 held in both hands, aimed to his left, at the room in general. Ryan's shot changed all that. It hit the man in the chest and punched him backward, mouth gaping, so that he collapsed against the wall, slumping and leaving a thick red smear as he sank to the floor.
Ryan watched in admiration as J.B., still leaning with his back to the bar, his coat open, his right hand resting on his belt, drew the Browning with shocking speed. His arm jerked up and the Hi-Power barked and spat, its bullet slamming one of the other black jackets over into a table. The table splintered under his weight and the violent impact of his flailing body. His M-16 clattered to the floor.
That was what saved the last man, who was close to the table and to his heart-shot companion. The last man jumped away from the collapsing table and stumbled, dropped his piece, then with a wild yell leaped for the door.
Ryan hammered a round at him but missed by an inch. Or less. In adrenaline-boosted terror, the guy yanked the door and dived through it, the door swinging shut behind him.
J.B. jumped toward the door. Ryan, running to him, yelled, 'No bangs in the street!'
J.B. stopped dead, as though mesmerized by a vision only he could see. Ryan, running up the room full pelt, slowed to a halt, SIG raised.
The door had creaked open; in fact, the guy was pushing it inward with his body. The guy staggered in the doorway as the door swung away from him. He teetered on his heels, his arms half raised, his hands clawing feebly at nothing. He fell backward and crashed to the carpeted floor.
Another figure appeared in the doorway. It was Sam, holding a silenced Walther PP Super in her right hand. She stepped over the body, bent and heaved it away from the door. She slammed the door, kept hold of the Walther.
She said, her voice husky but not panicky, 'Main train's gone off the air. We were rapping with Cohn in War Wag One when he suddenly reported the convoy was surrounded. Voice came on the net, demanded to talk to the Old Man. Then there was a lot of interference. We relocated, heard this other guy say they'd nerved the main train, they were all dead, finished, kaput, and unless the Old Man threw in, the convoy'd get blitzed, too. Then there was more interference and they cut out.'
She stopped, impassive.
'Dead line?'
'Dead as this goon here.' She gestured at the man on the floor. 'We tried everything. They're off the air.'
J.B. shot a look at Ryan and Ryan sucked in air through his teeth, an icy feeling running up his spine like electricity.
Had Teague copped nerve gas? But where from? Then Ryan thought, if
Or was it maybe bluff? Had they merely axed the radio link somehow? But how would they have done that? They could certainly throw in interference fuzz, but not kill it dead unless...
Unless those in the main train really were dead.
And what about the Old Man? Was he dead and those with him, too? On reflection, almost certainly not, and for one excellent reason.
J.B. lit up one of his thin black cheroots, his eyes behind his steel-rimmed glasses narrowed in thought.
Ryan turned to the bar and said, 'Do us a favor, Charlie. Get these stiffs outta the way.'
'Just like that? I'll wave my wand, Ryan.' Then she sighed and said, 'Okay, don't panic. We'll fix it. I take it there's more on the stairs?'
'You take it correct.'
Charlie's tiny mouth opened and closed.
'You're a real hothead, Ryan.' She added, 'What if they came in a vehicle?'
'He said he saw them in the street. Across the street.'
'Oh, right. Good memory.'
Ryan watched as half the bar patrons began dragging bodies toward the far end of the room. J.B. sucked on his cheroot, blew smoke out in a thin plume. He said, 'Listen. They used gas on the train. Why didn't they use it on the Old Man?'
'That's a rhetorical question, J.B. You know the answer.'
'Hmm. They mortared gas canisters in.' He clicked his tongue irritably. 'Something we didn't make allowances for. Gas gets in through cracks and tiny holes. So all our people are dead. Nothing we can do there. Say it's a short-term agent. After dispersal they now have to open up all those land wags and trucks and the two war wags. But they can't, because they know that every damned vehicle owned by us is packed with boobies. Everybody knows that. And if they start smashing out window glass or blowing in doors, the whole caboodle could go up and they lose everything. So they're stuck.' A dark smile of satisfaction fled across the thin man's sallow features. 'They're well and truly stuck.'
'So they have to parley with the Old Man,' said Ryan. 'So they have to take him alive.'
'Nontoxic agent.'
'Nothing else'd do.'
'Yeah.'
'So that means,' continued Ryan, 'the Old Man's out. But he'd have made sure all the vehicles were tight. So that means Teague's goons have got more vehicles on their hands they can't touch, move or do any thing at all with.'
'Yeah.'
J.B. blew a smoke ring. It sailed up toward the ceiling, shimmying, expanding, drifting out from the center, breaking up.
'And that means,' said Ryan, 'we're the only free agents in town.'
'Yeah.'
'But they don't know what we know. No one knows that.'
J.B. murmured, 'That little extra.' He glanced at Ryan. 'How long we got?'
Ryan checked his watch. 'Rough timing, I'd say about four hours.'
'Gotta work fast. What's your plan, war chief?'
The room was now clear of stiffs. Incredibly those who remained in the bar were drinking and talking as
