Point of Impact

Bobby’s whole forehead spewed into the air, blood and bones and brain in a greasy fluid like a water balloon bursting, spraying every which way.

Fuck. They shot Bobby.

Tad didn’t even think about it, he bolted, ran straight for the only way not full of guns, right over the side of the hill. He hit five or six yards down, his legs collapsed, and he rolled himself into as much of a ball as he could, bouncing and smashing into creosote bushes and rocks and dirt, until he hit something so hard it took his consciousness.

* * *

Michaels watched in slow motion as John Howard shoved his handgun forward and started pulling the trigger. There were orange flashes from the muzzle and smaller flashes from the cylinder, but the sound was oddly quiet, like a cap pistol.

Brett Lee screamed — Michaels saw his mouth open — and he tried to point his pistol at Howard.

He’s going to shoot John, Michaels realized.

Michaels lunged, slamming into Lee. They both sprawled on the road. Lee dropped his gun to break his fall, hit, rolled up, and kicked at Michaels.

Without thinking or pausing, Michaels swept his right hand down and up again in an arc, caught Lee’s ankle and, at the same time, dropped into a low position and shoved with his left hand at Lee’s chest.

Lee fell backward, hit the road flat on his back, and his head thumped the asphalt and bounced. He was stunned enough so he didn’t move.

Michaels blinked and realized he had just done an angkat, a throw against an unweighted leg. Huh.

Jay, who probably didn’t have any more of an idea of what was going on than Michaels did, stepped up and shot Lee with his taser. Lee juddered and jittered on the dusty road as the electrical charge spasmed his muscles.

Michaels turned to look at Howard, who was up and moving toward the minivan, gun still extended in front of him. Michaels didn’t see his taser, he must have dropped it, but he hurried to join Howard.

Behind the still-open driver’s door, which had several holes in it, a man lay on the ground, bleeding, a rifle next to him. His chest was a ruin, dark with arterial blood, and Michaels knew the man had been shot in the heart. He’d be dead soon, if he wasn’t already.

He couldn’t see the man’s face until Howard kicked the door shut, and when he did, it was not really all that much of a surprise:

The heart-shot man was Zachary George of the NSA.

37

When Tad woke up, he didn’t know where he was. Outside, somewhere, and buried in some kind of sweet- smelling brush. He had cuts and bruises he didn’t remember, and felt like crap, but that wasn’t anything new, it had happened before. Lots of times.

He tried to sit up, couldn’t make it, then fell back and gulped for air.

This might be it, Tad, old son. The last roundup.

Damn. How’d he get here? Where was here, anyway?

The sight of Bobby’s head blowing apart filled his memory.

Aw, shit! Shit, shit, shit!

It all came back to him in a jumbled rush of pain and emotion. Killing Adam, the helicopter in the road, the leap he’d taken to get away—

Bobby’s head exploding. In slo mo and Technicolor.

Jesus!

He looked at his watch to see how long he’d been out, but the crystal was shattered, the minute hand bent to the face and stopped, the hour hand gone completely. The feds would be coming for him, they might be almost here, and he had to get up, he had to get moving, or they’d catch him. Probably none of them would have just jumped off the fucking cliff like he had, but they’d figure a way down soon enough to grab his ass. He didn’t know how long ago it had been. It felt like it was still afternoon going into evening, so maybe he’d only been out for a few minutes.

He wasn’t going to get far in his condition, he knew.

He reached into his pocket and came out with one of the Hammer packets. A couple of them fell on the ground, but it was too much trouble to bother picking them up. Well, he sure wasn’t going to be making any deliveries anytime soon, and the clock was running on this batch. He had until tomorrow around noon before the stuff would all go sour. Use it or lose it, and he couldn’t take them all.

He tore open the packet and dry-swallowed the Hammer cap. Thought about it for a few seconds, then ripped open another packet and took that cap, too. It would be a while before the stuff would kick in, and he couldn’t sit here waiting for it, no matter how much he hurt.

The gun he’d had tucked in his belt was gone. His car was God knew how far up the hill, surrounded by feds. He was screwed.

And Bobby was dead. That hadn’t really sunk in, it didn’t seem real. They’d killed him, they’d fucking executed him, he’d had his hands up, and they had blown his head off!

Tad felt a surge of anger well up, filling him with murderous rage. He wanted to run back up that hill and tear them apart with his bare hands, rip their arms and legs off, stomp on the bloody torsos.

The anger was good, but it was barely strong enough to get him to his feet and moving. If he could stay clear long enough for the Hammer to kick in, he’d be okay. Once the drug took hold, he’d be able to travel at speed.

And go where?

The safe house. They didn’t know about that. Bobby had the place stocked, there was some running-away money stashed there, more in the safe at the storage space.

Bobby was dead.

Tad couldn’t believe it. Bobby was smart, good-looking, rich, he had everything going for him. And they cooked him, blam! Just like that.

Tad stumbled, fell, and managed to get back to his feet. Oh, they were gonna pay for killing Bobby.

He was fucking going to make them pay.

* * *

“No sign of the zombie?” Jay said.

“The DEA people haven’t found him yet. Local deputies will be joining the search soon,” Michaels said. “General Howard went down with them and found this.” He held up a purple capsule. “There were several of them under a bush down there. DEA got the rest, but it doesn’t look as if they have turned sour yet. So this is still an active capsule.”

“No great loss. We got the chemist.”

“We have his body,” Howard said.

Jay nodded and blew out a sigh. What a fuck-up this had been.

“I bet forensics will match that rifle George had to the bullets they found in my agency car at Manassas,” Howard said. “George was the shooter. That’s why Lee had such a great alibi.”

“So they were in it together all along. But why shoot this guy Drayne?”

“I don’t know,” Michaels said.

Lee had recovered from the fall and taser shock and was handcuffed and sitting in the back of one of the DEA vehicles that had finally arrived. He was more than a little distraught when he saw the body of George covered up and waiting for the coroner.

He’d sobbed and begun crying. Not really the kind of reaction an op from one agency usually had for an op from another agency, certainly not the same sex. Something there, all right.

“Bastard,” Lee had said to Howard. “You killed him!”

“Damn straight,” Howard had replied. “I only wish I’d shot him two seconds sooner.”