Kier could discern her determination even in the semidarkness of the small flashlight. Her hand gripped his wrist. They heard the rushing sound of fire. ''Listen to me. I can help you.'
'Jessie. In the dark, alone, around my place, I can do something. You'd be a handicap. This isn't a computer thing.'
'Well, it's not a house call for a sick dog either.'
There was very little time before the fire would be too hot to allow their escape. He could hear the crackling flames overhead, and knew he had to come up while the structure was still standing.
''I can cover you,'' she argued, still gripping his wrist, pulling on him.
'Okay. But wait sixty seconds at least before you come.' He reached down and grabbed the book.
Kier stepped to the ladder. At the top he gave her a quick salute. He pressed a button that activated the hydraulic arm moving the shelving away from the wall. Sliding through the trapdoor, he closed it quickly, squatted on it, then flipped down the metal tongue that fitted over a recessed steel loop. Instead of a lock, he placed a piece of wood through the latch, jamming it so the trapdoor wouldn't open.
'Jessie,' he called out, his face to the crack. 'I've changed my mind. Wait there until I call you. Get in the wine cellar and put the boards in place. If I'm not back in forty-five minutes, get out the best you can. There's a crowbar-'
'Kier, don't be an asshole.'
'Please, Jessie.'
'I'll kill you for this.'
Then he swung the shelving back over the door.
Overhead, flames boiled under the roof. The heat was intense but bearable. A good portion of the rear wall was on fire; he had only seconds. Crawling to the still-open rear door, he saw one man nearby, mesmerized by the burning cabin, his M-16 at the ready. The hunter toyed with a grenade in his left hand.
Kier had to knock out the double-pane side window on his left, then dive through without being seen. Spying a chainsaw gas tank, he considered how he might use it for a diversion. The heat now felt ferocious on his back. He had to move or die.
He opened the cap and hurled the tank at the window to his far right. As he huddled behind the woodpile, the explosion blew past him. With the acrid stink of his own singed hair filling his nostrils, he threw an axe into the closer window, on the left, then got on his knees and used a maul to clear out the rest of the glass. The fire, gobbling oxygen, left nothing but smoke for his lungs. He had to get out. Launching himself through the window, he cleared the windowsill in a flat dive.
Work with what you have, Jessie told herself, standing on the ladder. Forcing herself to be calm, she considered that fighting the trapdoor would only distract Kier and perhaps draw the attention of their attackers. She retreated to the wine cellar, boarding up the interior wall so that she would be invisible to anyone who came to investigate. After the boards were in place, she closed the metal door, turned on the light, and caught a whiff of fresh air from a vent. She scarcely glanced at the wine bottles on their neat wooden racks or noticed the thermometer, which indicated fifty-seven degrees.
She had marked the time and would wait the forty-five minutes. Then, she would go up and give the world a piece of her mind.
Chapter 10
A man falling from a great cliff needs neither courage nor fear.
But those who remain need both.
When Kier hit the ground, he started crawling like a mouse under a rug. He had been visible for a split second against the light of the flames, but since there had been no bullets, he assumed he hadn't been seen. A small pump house stood forty feet from the blaze; he stopped there and hid the fifth volume.
He examined the tree line, looking for the safety men- those who would stay well back to assist the hunters nearest the cabin. He would disable the reinforcements first.
The snow still fell in great sheets, blown sideways by a piercing wind, the cold soothing his burns that, despite the pain, were minor. His primary concern now would be frostbite. Kier was immediately conscious of the bone-aching pain of bare hands on snow. Soon they would feel like dead flesh. Wearing only his long underwear, pants, a shirt, and a sweater, he could not stay out for long without more insulation. He lay on his belly, sinking down into a couple of feet of fluffy snow.
Slowly crawling past one tree trunk at a time, he scrutinized every outline in the night. Sometimes he tested with his rapidly freezing fingertips, feeling for leather or fabric. A cacophony of wind noises, the creak of the trees, the howl of the air around every edge, the rustle of every leaf, the swish of every branch, the crackling roar of the nearby fire: all made sound an untrustworthy ally.
After many minutes, he didn't know how many, he reached for yet another outline in the night. The touch was almost casual, as he expected another tree. He felt the roughness of bark. But right next to it, planted at the sapling's base, lay something smooth-too smooth. It was a boot. Kier's weary body came alive. He had found a soldier's foot. Moving again, he put the boot between himself and the fire. Yes-there was a silhouetted leg against the light from the burning cabin.
By the position of the heel, he verified that the man faced away from him. Kier rose slowly, absolute stealth imperative. He could not risk a miss or a struggle.
He waited, letting his breath run over his hands, warming them from the horrible, tingling pain. After many seconds, he heard a raspy breath like a quiet sigh. Slowly he put his hand out into the night wind-listening, feeling, waiting. Then he cupped his hand back toward himself. In an instant he felt a snow-capped dome-a helmet-icy- smooth plastic on the leeward side. It was the Up at the back of the man's neck. Fast as a cat's paw, Kier's hand drove under the man's helmet, chopping the bony knot at the base of his skull. At the same time, he grabbed the man's chin, yanking it upward.
In one motion, he applied a chokehold. The man's arms windmilled as he struggled vainly against the silencing of his mind. Finally, he sagged. A small body for a professional thug, Kier thought.
He expected to find a duplicate of Miller's equipment, and he was not disappointed. First he put on the man's down-filled mitts. Only the trigger finger had an independent sleeve, and they were very warm. In seconds he had the all-important pair of handcuffs. Although there was no stiletto, a sharpened knife hung on the man's belt. Trying not to think of what he was about to do, he pulled off the mitts just long enough to untie the heavy laces of the man's right boot. With some difficulty, he removed the boot, along with two pairs of socks. Holding the man's heel with his left hand, he took the large combat knife and held it against his Achilles tendon.
How deep should he go? Certainly he needn't go all the way to prevent the man from following and make him worthless as a soldier. He couldn't see; fishing through the man's pockets, he found his flashlight. It would be suicide to turn it on in the open, so he hunkered down. In the instant he could see, he sliced into the flesh, cutting well into the tendon, but not completely through. With utter disgust, he crammed the man's foot back into the boot, not bothering with the socks. If he didn't die of the cold, it would be weeks or months before the man walked unassisted.
Now Kier had a two-way radio, a penlight, an automatic weapon, four grenades, a 10-mm. pistol with a silencer, and several ammo clips. He stripped off the man's thin overcoat, which would provide Kier some slight additional protection. There was no time to remove the insulated body suit, and he didn't want the man to die.
The odds were starting to change. Running his mitted fingers over the automatic rifle, he knew it was not an M-16. These guys were not even pretending to be National Guard. Pulling back the bolt, he quietly ejected a shell, the sound a slight click, lost in the wind. Feeling the round, he knew immediately that they had the latest in technology. He couldn't remember what it was called, but this gun left no empty casings. Hundreds of shots could
