see a gaping doorway where the sheet had been prised loose.
Rising up, he cast a look backwards.
Hunter met his gaze, and he nodded in the direction of the buildings.
Come and get it, asshole.
Then he took off across the field, heedless of the two McDonnell Douglas choppers circling the nearby field. His leg pained him. His arm didn't yet, but it would only be a matter of time. He had to reach the buildings before Hunter could get close enough to shoot. Exposed as he crossed the open space, Hunter would be easy meat for Dantalion's bullets.
A chopper came over the top of the power station, rotors buzzing like an angry hornet. It wasn't one of the black gunships, but the liveried Bell Jet Ranger once piloted by the man whose clothes he now wore.
The sun was behind the chopper, but he could make out a single man on board. One of the agents from back at Eunice Jorgenson's home. Probably the asshole tasked with bringing him down.
Dantalion came to a standstill and lifted the Glock. He saw a widening of the eyes of the man piloting the chopper. Dantalion fired. Three rapid bursts that cut a zigzag pattern across the windshield. Behind the starred glass the cockpit changed colour, scarlet puffing in the air.
Then the chopper was dipping towards him and Dantalion was forced to move as the whirling rotors cleaved air above him as if in a decapitating frenzy. He charged to the left and he felt the displacement of air as the chopper hurtled to the ground. Behind him it sounded as if the earth had exploded. Dirt and dust and grass showered around him. There was the screaming of an engine on overload, the bang! bang! bang! of rotors churning into the ground, followed by shrieks as chunks of hot metal were torn loose and thrown into the air.
He looked back.
The Bell Jet Ranger was reduced to scrap metal. Oily black smoke rose like a funeral pyre from the burnt-out engine components. The rotors had been reduced to gnarly stumps. Still, the dying helicopter was groaning, but only until sparks jumped from the overheated engine into the spilled fuel and it gave out one final roar as the entire craft exploded.
The concussion sent Dantalion sprawling to the ground. Searing heat washed over him and for the briefest of moments he felt as though all life was being sucked from his body. An image flashed through his mind of the petrified victims found in the ashes of Pompeii after the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, charred and desiccated corpses twisted into foetal balls. He thought that was how he must look. Except now the heat had gone, the in-gust taking the flames back towards the wreckage of the chopper, and he realised that — apart from singed hair and a throat that felt like it burned — he was unharmed.
He was face down on the ground with his arms over his head. He had no recollection of striking the pose. He quickly snapped to attention, wondering how much time his killing of the chopper pilot had taken, and how much of his advantage had been torn away in doing so.
Rolling to his feet, he looked for Hunter. He was two hundred yards nearer and gaining. Then smoke from the doomed chopper rolled across the intervening space and Hunter's charging form was lost from view. Dantalion broke into an ungainly lope, hand fumbling for his book. The book was there, but it took him a second to register that the hand he'd used should have been holding a Glock. He ground to a halt, turned round, searching for where the explosion had thrown the gun to.
He couldn't see it. Smoking debris lay everywhere. Chunks of hot metal and divots of earth obscured the ground all around where he'd fallen.
'Son of a bitch!'
Hunter burst through the smoke bank, his seething eyes picking out Dantalion like lasers.
He wasn't at an advantage any longer and the nearby building offered only a place to hide.
If he could even get there before Hunter was close enough to use his handgun.
This time his flight was fuelled by adrenalin and all his hurts were forgotten.
42
It seemed my CIA friend, Walter Hayes Conrad, wields only a limited amount of power. He'd pulled enough strings to ensure Kaufman offered me a level amount of leeway that I was allowed along for the ride. But SAC Kaufman had said that I'd only be given free rein until his own men arrived. It had obviously been his plan to take me out of the picture as soon as he had back-up at the scene. I'd been wrong about Kaufman. He was as much a bureaucratic asshole as most others in his position. He was still the Special Agent in Charge, and he wasn't about to allow me — a loose cannon — the glory of bringing down the professional hit man who'd killed his colleague.
It was bad form taking down Kaufman's men the way I did. I probably hadn't endeared myself to anyone. My only saving grace was that I hadn't left any of them severely injured. I could foresee that Walter was going to have to kiss a few butts before this was over with. Maybe I would have to as well. But I didn't let that concern me. I had Dantalion in my sights.
The white-faced killer had a good lead on me. I jumped the irrigation channel, raced after him. I could have taken him out with a rifle, but something had made me throw down the FBI agent's gun in favour of my trusty SIG. Things had grown very personal between us and I'd only be happy if I was looking into the bastard's face when I killed him. Using my SIG meant I'd be able to see the whites of his eyes.
It wasn't hard to see where he was heading — a complex of buildings surrounded by a chain-link fence. My best guess was he wanted to find cover and then pick me off while I was in the open and exposed. So I ran harder, taking that option away from him.
Then a chopper rose into view from behind the buildings.
Recognising it as the Bell Jet Ranger I'd hitched a ride here in, I realised that SAC Kaufman was on an ass- covering expedition of his own. There was the roll of automatic gunfire and I staggered against the blast as the chopper went supernova.
SAC Kaufman didn't need to worry about answering awkward questions any longer.
The air was full with the stench of aviation fuel, as viscous as warm treacle on my skin. Smoke billowed, but I caught a snatch of movement as Dantalion came to his feet. He set off running, and it was more than my approach that lent wings to his heels. The fucker was unarmed. And he was running scared.
The thunders of judgement and wrath are numbered, you freak!
I charged after him. Lifted my SIG and fired a quick volley.
Contrary to popular belief, even a trained gunman like me can't hit targets at a run. Handguns are notoriously poor for killing people unless you are very close to a static target. But that was OK. My only wish was to keep him running and keep him frightened. My bullets kept him moving, and his face when he glanced back at me was a mask of horror.
Dantalion reached the fence and he launched himself at a rent in the wires. His clothes snagged and he tore at the wire to free himself. All the while I was gaining on him and I fired again. Sparks marked where my bullets cut through the wires.
Fifty yards or so separated us. But that distance was shortened with each step. So, I told myself, was Dantalion's time left on this earth.
The phone in my pocket vibrated.
Without halting my charge I plucked the phone out of my pocket.
There was only one person it could be.
'Rink?'
'Just lost your signal, buddy. Thought I'd check you were still alive.'
Above my head was a tangle of high-voltage cables. The buildings appeared derelict but I could hear the faint buzz from the wires, felt the hair stirring at the nape of my neck. There was still power surging through the network, so we were lucky to be able to speak at all.
'Still alive, Rink,' I huffed as I ran. 'Where you at?'
'Can't be far off. I can see vultures circling in the sky, and if I'm not mistaken they're looking for pickings from some big old barbecue.'
