Part 8 (1/2)

Furiously wis.h.i.+ng to G.o.d that he knew where he'd dropped his rifle, Thibodeau turned his head downward and saw to his amazement that was it still in his right hand, his fingers clutched around the grip, its barrel jacket pressed almost vertically against his side.

He dropped his cheek to the floor again, dropped it into a pool of his own blood, no longer able to keep it up. He was funneling all his willpower into getting the hand to move. He told it to move, begged it to move, and when it failed to respond silently began cursing it, demanding that it quit giving him bulls.h.i.+t, insisting angrily that it could f.u.c.k with him later on, could fall right off his shoulder if that was how it had to be, but that right now it was going to obey him and raise the G.o.dd.a.m.ned rifle.

Thibodeau heard himself take a racking breath. He could see the invaders in their black helmets and uniforms, getting closer, pounding up the stairs.

Come on, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he thought. Come on. Come on.

And then suddenly his arm was coming up, dragging the gun with it, dragging it through his spilled blood, getting its barrel under the railing and pointed down at the stairs.

He triggered the rifle and felt it rattle against his body, spraying the stairs with rounds. The invaders almost collided with each other as they halted in their tracks and shot back with their own weapons. Bullets whizzed over Thibodeau's head, tocking like hailstones against the projecting edge of the catwalk and the wall behind him. Recovered from their surprise at being fired upon, seeing that Thibodeau was badly wounded, the two invaders were coming at him once again, crouching, their guns stuttering as they began climbing the stairs. A third man, meanwhile, had opened fire from the aisle below.

Thibodeau pumped out another burst, but knew he was weakening, knew his clip would be empty soon, knew he was nearly finished.

Laissez les bons temps rouler--wasn't that what he'd told Cody earlier? Let the good times roll, roll on to the very last, take me rolling down nice and easy, amen, G.o.d, amen, he thought half deliriously.

And fired again at the invaders with the remainder of his strength and ammunition, braced for what he was certain would be the final moments of his life.

”Thibodeau's down,” Delure said. ”Christ, we've got to do something.”

”Give me the 'hog's position,” Cody replied. He was staring at pictures being sent by ceiling-mounted surveillance cameras in the payload storage bay. Now under the remote control of the monitoring room, their feeds normally appeared on a television screen every ten minutes in a rotational sequence that included feeds from other medium- and high-security buildings, and that should have been automatically overridden in the event of a trespa.s.s, with the system tripping an alarm and locking its visuals upon the area that had been breached. But the cameras' regular transmissions had been neglected as the attack at the compound's periphery gathered momentum, and the invaders had apparently gained entry to the warehouse through authorized means, defeating the override.

It was a lapse whose consequences had become terribly clear to Cody's team in the past several minutes.

Jezoirski was looking closely at the hedgehog's video transmissions. ”Felix is at the warehouse... about thirty feet down the corridor it'll bear left, take another elevator down to the storage bay....”

”You said that means, what, another minute until it's actually on that catwalk?”

Jezoirski nodded. ”That's my estimate, yeah.”

”Thibodeau might not last that long,” Delure said. ”I'm telling you, Cody, he needs our help right now.”

”Our orders are to sit tight.”

”But we can't just sit here and watch them kill him.” kill him.”

”Listen to me, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!” Cody snapped. He was sweating profusely now, the moisture dripping down over his lips. ”We'd never make it to the warehouse before the 'hog and the backup team. You want to help Thibodeau, keep your eyes on those screens, and be ready to tell that robot what to do when it reaches him!” Cody snapped. He was sweating profusely now, the moisture dripping down over his lips. ”We'd never make it to the warehouse before the 'hog and the backup team. You want to help Thibodeau, keep your eyes on those screens, and be ready to tell that robot what to do when it reaches him!”

Kuhl crouched behind his vehicle, the sounds of gunfire surrounding him, helicopters whirring overhead. His expression was rigid with thought, almost brooding, as if he were oblivious to it all.

In fact he was keenly attuned to his situation, his mind distilling and evaluating its every aspect. Up until now the mission had been a success. His men had met almost every objective set out for them, and in some cases done better than expected. But the stage at which events could be orchestrated was past, and sustaining further losses was unacceptable. It was necessary to recognize that the balance had s.h.i.+fted toward his opposition. If he continued, his force might be so badly weakened it would be unable to retreat. And he was not one to bait chance.

He turned to his driver, who was huddled beside him. ”We're pulling out,” he said, and motioned toward the jeep. ”Radio the others to let them know.”

Manuel was sitting on the ground nearby, leaning back against the door of the vehicle. His untreated wound had sapped him and he was breathing in short, labored gasps.

”We can't.” He nodded toward the interior of the compound. ”Yellow Team is still in there.”

”They knew the risks,” Kuhl said. ”We've waited as long as we can.”

Manuel slid himself up along the side of the door, wincing with the effort.

”They haven't had enough time,” he croaked.

”I've given my order. You can stay behind, if you wish.” There was anger in Kuhl's eyes. ”Decide quickly.”

Manuel looked at him for a long moment, bent his head to stare at the ground, then slowly looked back at him with resignation.

”I'll need some help getting into the jeep,” he said at last.

Outside the warehouse complex, a group of ten Sword ops raced on foot toward the service door through which Thibodeau had pursued the invaders. The team was composed of men who had been pulled from dispositions around the compound's residential and office buildings.

They came to where the murdered guard lay on the ground, stopped, gazed down at him. The knife wound in his back was still bleeding out.

One of them mouthed an oath, his right hand making the sign of the cross on his forehead and chest.

”Bryce,” he said. ”Ah, s.h.i.+t, poor guy.”

Another member of the ad hoc team grabbed his arm.

”No use standing here,” he said.

The two of them looked at each other. The first man started to say something in response, but then simply cleared his throat and nodded.

Turning from the body, they ran into the open service door, the rest of the team pouring into the warehouse behind them.

Thibodeau could feel the world slipping away. He was trying to hold onto it, trying desperately, but it was loose and runny around the edges, made of soft taffy, and out beyond where it waned off into formlessness, he could sense a black ma.s.s waiting to swallow it all up. He knew what was happening to him, no brain flash needed on that score. It was blood loss, it was traumatic shock, it was how it felt to be dying from a large-caliber bullet hole in your gut. The world was slipping away, and though he would have preferred it didn't, the choice didn't seem to be within his making.

Thibodeau breathed hard through his mouth, coughed. It was a thick, liquidy sound that admittedly frightened him a little, and the air felt cold entering his lungs, but there wasn't much pain, and things seemed to get more distinct afterward. He saw the two invaders who'd been shooting at him emerge from the blurred comers of his vision, one behind the other, hurrying up the stairs to the catwalk. He had held them off as long as he could, firing his gun until its magazine was exhausted. Now he wasn't even sure whether or not the weapon was still in his hand.

The invader who had led the way up was standing over him, pointing his rifle straight down at his head.

Thibodeau took another breath, managed to lift his cheek off the catwalk's b.l.o.o.d.y runner. Its grooves had marked his cheek with smears of his own blood.