For a moment he fought against an almost overpowering urge to turn and flee himself. There was something so awful, so inhuman, in what he saw happening to those people that it stirred every primitive fear he had thought long buried by training, discipline, and willpower. No one should die like that, he thought desperately. No man should have to watch himself rotting away while still alive.
With an effort, Smith tore his eyes away from the rotting flesh and mangled corpses strewn outside the Teller Institute. Pistol in hand, he scanned the panicked mob fleeing toward the perimeter fence, trying to pick out those who showed no fear—those whose movements were disciplined and sure. He spotted a group of six men walking steadily toward the fence. They were more than a hundred meters ahead of him. Four were clad in blue coveralls and lugged heavy equipment cases. Smith nodded to himself. Those had to be the specialists who had planted the bombs inside the Institute. The two remaining men, striding a few yards behind the others, wore identical charcoal gray suits. Each was armed with a short-nosed Uzi submachine gun. The shorter of the two was about Jon’s own height, with short-cropped black hair. But the one who really caught his attention, the powerfully built auburn-haired man who seemed to be giving the orders, was at least a head taller than his comrades.
Smith started running again. He loped across the open ground, dodging the pathetic remains scattered here and there, closing rapidly on the retreating terrorists. He was within fifty meters or so when their chief, turning his head for a last satisfied look at the bomb-gutted and burning Teller Institute, saw him coming.
“Action! Rear!” the giant shouted, warning his men. He was already swinging to face Smith with his submachine gun gripped in both hands. He opened fire instantly, walking short bursts across the sand and scrub toward the running American.
Jon threw himself to the right, rolling on his shoulder. He came back up on one knee with the Beretta aimed in the right general direction. Without waiting for the sights to settle on his target, he squeezed off two shots. Neither came that close, but at least they forced the big man to drop behind a clump of sagebrush.
Another Uzi burst pulverized the ground right behind Smith, kicking up huge dirt clods. He swiveled. The black-haired gunman was coming up on his flank, firing as he ran.
Jon swung the Beretta through a wide arc, leading the other man by just a hair. He breathed out calmly and fired three times. His first shot missed. The second and third shattered the terrorist’s leg and smashed his right shoulder.
Screaming in pain, the black-haired man stumbled and went down. Two of the men in coveralls dropped their equipment cases and ran to help him. Immediately the tall auburn-haired man popped up from behind the sagebrush and began shooting again.
Smith felt an Uzi round punch through the lining of his leather bomber jacket. The superheated air trailing the near miss tore a searing line of fire across his ribs.
He rolled again, trying frantically to throw off the big man’s aim. More bullets clipped the sand and dry vegetation all around him. Expecting to get hit any second, he fired back with the Beretta while rolling, snapping off several unaimed shots in a desperate bid to force the other man back into cover.
Still rolling, Smith landed behind a large rock half-buried in a patch of tall wheatgrass. He went prone. Submachine-gun fire hammered the small boulder.
The noise of a powerful engine roared above the sound of gunfire. Warily Jon raised his head for a quick look. He saw a mammoth dark green Ford Excursion accelerating through one of the gaps in the fence. The SUV veered left, heading straight for the skirmish. Hundreds of panicked protesters ducked out of its path as it bounced over the broken ground at high speed.
Brakes squealing, the vehicle slewed round and skidded to a stop next to the small band of terrorists. The cloud of dust thrown by its tires hung low in the air, drifting slowly downwind. Protected by the SUV’s bulk, the four explosives experts tossed their equipment cases into the back, shoved the wounded gunman into one of the rear seats, and scrambled inside themselves. Still firing short aimed bursts in Smith’s direction, the auburn-haired giant backed away slowly toward the getaway vehicle. He was smiling now, his eyes alight with pleasure.
That murderous son of a bitch! Jon’s cold fury suddenly flared into white-hot rage, erasing any instinct for self-preservation. Without stopping to think more clearly, he stood straight up, bracing the Beretta in a target shooter’s grip.
Surprised by his boldness, the tall man stopped shooting controlled bursts and went to full auto. The Uzi chattered wildly, climbing higher with every round it fired.
Smith felt bullets ripping the air close to his head. He ignored them, choosing instead to focus entirely on his target. Fifty meters was near the outside edge of his effective pistol range, so concentration was vital. The Beretta’s sights slid down on the big man’s massive chest and stayed there.
He squeezed the trigger rapidly, firing as many shots as quickly as he could without spoiling his aim. His first bullet punched a hole in the front passenger side door, just inches from the auburn-haired giant’s hip. The second smashed the window next to his elbow.
Jon frowned. The Beretta was pulling to the left. He shifted his aim slightly and fired again. This 9mm round smashed the Uzi out of the terrorist leader’s hands, sending it flying into the scrub far out of his reach. The bullet ricocheted off the SUV’s hood in a shower of sparks.
Unnerved by the gunfire hammering his vehicle, the getaway driver stomped down hard on the accelerator. The Excursion’s tires spun futilely for a second and then found some traction. The dark green SUV peeled out, skidded through another tight turn, and roared away toward the fence, leaving the tall auburn-haired man behind in a drifting spray of sand and dust.
For a moment the giant stood motionless, with his head cocked to watch his comrades abandon him. Then, to Smith’s astonishment, he simply shrugged his massive shoulders and turned back to face the American. His face was now utterly devoid of any expression.
Jon moved closer, still aiming the Beretta at him. “Get your hands up!”
The other man just stood there, waiting.
“I said get your hands up!” Smith snapped. He kept walking, closing the range. He stopped about fifteen meters away, well inside the zone where he knew he could put every 9mm round exactly where he wanted it.
The auburn-haired giant said nothing. His bright green eyes narrowed. The look in them reminded Jon of one he had seen in a caged tiger padding back and forth past human prey it could not reach.
“And what will you do if I refuse? Kill me?” the tall man said at last.
His voice was softer than Smith expected and his English was perfect, utterly without trace of an accent.
Smith nodded coldly. “If I have to.”
“Then do it,” the other man told him. Without waiting any longer, he took a long stride forward, moving with a predator’s lithe grace. His right hand darted inside his coat and came out gripping a razor-edged fighting knife.
Smith squeezed the Beretta’s trigger. It bucked upward, and recoil slammed the slide back, ejecting the spent shell casing. But this time the slide locked to the rear. He swore under his breath. He had just fired the last of the fifteen rounds in the pistol’s magazine.
The 9mm bullet hit the auburn-haired giant high up on his left side. For a brief instant the impact rocked him back. He looked down at the small red-rimmed hole in his coat. Blood pulsed in the wound, spilling slowly out across the dark fabric. Then he flexed the fingers of his left hand and waggled the fighting knife in his right. His lips twisted into a cruel grin. He shook his head in mock pity. “Not good enough. As you see, I still live.”
Still grinning, the green-eyed man slowly moved in for the kill, sweeping his knife back and forth in a sinuous, almost hypnotic, arc. The deadly-looking blade glinted in the sun.
Desperately Smith hurled the now-useless Beretta at him.
The big man ducked under it and attacked. He struck with unbelievable
speed, aiming for the American’s throat.
Smith jerked aside. The knife blade flashed past less than an inch from his face. He backed away fast, breathing hard.
The green-eyed man came after him. He lunged again, this time lower.
Jon spun to one side and chopped down hard, trying to break the other man’s right wrist. It was like hitting a piece of high-quality steel. His hand went numb. He fell back again, shaking his fingers, trying frantically to work some life back into them. What the hell was he fighting?
The big man came prowling after him a third time, grinning even wider now, plainly enjoying himself. This time he feinted with the knife in his right hand and then punched Smith in the ribs with his left—striking with pile-driving force.
The massive jolt knocked the air out of Jon’s lungs. He stumbled backward, gasping, panting—fighting now just to stay on his feet and conscious.
“Perhaps you should have saved that last bullet for yourself,” the green-eyed man suggested politely. He held up the fighting knife. “It would have been quicker and less painful than this will be.”
Smith kept backing away, looking for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. There was nothing, just sand and hard-packed soil. He felt himself starting to panic. Hold it together, Jon, he told himself. If you freeze in front of this bastard, you are as good as dead. Hell, you may be dead anyway, but at least you can make a fight of it.
Somewhere off in the distance, he thought he could hear the sound of police sirens—sirens drawing nearer. But still the green-eyed man stalked after him, eager to make his kill.
Chapter
Seven
Two hundred meters away, on the edge of a small thicket of piñon pines and juniper trees, three men lay concealed in the tall, dry grass. One of them, much bigger than his companions, focused a pair of high-powered binoculars on the corpse-littered grounds of the Institute, watching the hand-to-hand combat between the lean dark-haired American and his taller, far more powerful opponent. He frowned, weighing his options. Beside him, a sniper kept one eye glued to the telescopic sight of an odd-looking rifle, slowly and steadily adjusting his aim.
The third man, a signals expert, lay in a tangle of sophisticated communications gear. He listened intently to the urgent, static-riddled voices in his headphones. “The authorities are starting to respond more effectively, Terce,” he said flatly. “Additional police, ambulance, and fire units are all converging rapidly on this location.”
“Understood.” Terce, the man with the binoculars, shrugged his shoulders. “Prime has made a regrettable error.”
“His driver reacted improperly,” murmured the sniper beside him.
“The driver will be disciplined,” the man agreed. “But Prime knew the mission requirements. This fight is pointless. He should have left when given the chance, but he is allowing his lusts to override his better judgment. He may kill this man he hunts, but he is unlikely to escape.” He made a decision. “So be it. Mark him.”
“And the other, too?” the sniper asked.
“Yes.”
The sniper nodded. He looked through the scope, adjusting his aim one last time. “Target acquired.” He pulled the trigger. The odd-looking rifle coughed quietly. “Target marked.”
Smith ducked under another deadly slash from the green-eyed man’s knife. He backpedaled again, knowing that he was running out of time and maneuvering room. Sooner or later, this maniac would nail him.
Suddenly the auburn-haired man slapped irritably at his neck—almost as if he were crushing a wasp. He took another step forward and then stopped, staring down at his hand with a look of absolute horror. His mouth fell open and he half-turned—looking back over his shoulder at the silent woods behind him.
And then, while Smith watched in growing terror, the tall green-eyed man began to come apart. A web of red cracks snaked rapidly across his face and hands, growing ever wider. In seconds, his skin fell away, dissolving into translucent red-tinged ooze. His green eyes melted and slid down his face. The big man shrieked aloud in inhuman agony. Screaming and writhing, the giant toppled to the ground—clawing wildly at what little was left of his body in a futile effort to fight off whatever was eating him alive.
Jon could not bear to see any more. He turned, stumbled, and fell to his knees, retching uncontrollably. In that moment, something hissed past his ear and buried itself in the earth in front of him.
Instinct taking over, Smith threw himself sideways and then he crawled rapidly toward the nearest cover.
In the grove of trees, the sniper slowly lowered his odd-looking rifle. “The second target has gone to ground. I have no shot.”
“It does not matter,” the man with the binoculars said coldly. “One man more or less is of no real consequence.” He turned to the signaler. “Contact the Center. Inform them that Field Two is under way and seems to be proceeding according to plan.”
“Yes, Terce.”
“What about Prime?” the sniper asked quietly. “How will you report his death?”
For a moment, the man with binoculars sat still, pondering the question. Then he asked, “Do you know the legend of the Horatii?”
The sniper shook his head.
“It is an old, old story,” Terce told him. “From the days of the Romans, long before their empire. Three identical brothers, the Horatii, were sent to duel against the three champions of a neighboring city. Two fought bravely, but they were killed. The third of the Horatii triumphed—not through sheer force of arms alone but through stealth and cunning.”
The sniper said nothing.
The man with the binoculars turned his head and smiled coldly. A stray shaft of sunlight fell on his auburn hair and lit his strikingly green eyes. “Like Prime, I am one of the Horatii. But unlike Prime, I plan to survive and to win the reward I have been promised.”
PART TWO
Chapter
Eight
The Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.
FBI Deputy Assistant Director Katherine (“Kit”) Pierson stood at the window of her fifth-floor office, frowning down at the rain-slick surface of Pennsylvania Avenue. There were just a few cars waiting at the nearest traffic lights and only a small scattering of tourists scurrying along the avenue’s broad sidewalks beneath bobbing umbrellas. The usual evening mass exodus of the city’s federal workforce was still a couple of hours away.
She resisted the urge to check the time again. Waiting for others to act had never been one of her strengths.
Kit Pierson glanced up from the street and caught a faint glimpse of her reflection in the tinted glass. For a brief instant she studied herself dispassionately, wondering again why the slate gray eyes gazing back at her so often seemed those of a stranger. Even at forty-five, her ivory white skin was still smooth, and her short dark brown hair framed a face that she knew most men considered attractive.
Not that she gave them many chances to tell her so, she thought coolly. A failed early marriage and a bitter divorce had proved to her that she could not successfully mix romance with her career in the FBI. The national interests of the Bureau and the United States always came first—even those interests her superiors were sometimes too afraid to recognize.
Pierson was aware that the agents and analysts under her command called her the Winter Queen behind her back. She shrugged that off. She drove herself much harder than she ever drove them. And it was better to be thought a bit cold and distant than to be seen as weak or inefficient. The FBI’s Counter-Terrorism Division was no place for clock-punching nine-to-fivers whose eyes were fixed on their pensions rather than on the nation’s ever-more dangerous enemies.
Enemies like the Lazarus Movement.
For several months now she and Hal Burke over at the CIA had warned their superiors that the Lazarus Movement was becoming a direct threat to the vital interests of the United States and those of its allies. They had zeroed in on all the signs that the Movement was escalating its rhetoric and moving toward violent ac
tion. They had presented policy papers and analysis and every scrap of evidence they could lay their hands on.
But no one higher up the ladder had been willing to act forcefully enough against the growing threat. Burke’s boss, CIA Director David Hanson, talked a good game, but even he fell short in the end. Many of the politicians were worse. They looked at Lazarus and saw only the surface camouflage, the do-gooder environmental organization. It was what lay beneath that camouflage that Kit Pierson feared.
“Imagine a terrorist group like al-Qaeda, but run instead by Americans and Europeans and Asians—by people who look just like you or me or those nice neighbors down Maple Lane,” she often reminded her staff. “What kind of profiling can we run against a threat like that?”
Hanson, for one, understood that the Lazarus Movement was a clear and present danger. But the CIA director insisted on fighting this battle within the law and within the bounds set down by politics. In contrast, Pierson and Burke and others around the world knew that it was too late to play by “the rules.” They were committed to destroying the Movement by aggressive action—using whatever means were necessary.
The phone on her desk rang. She turned away from the window and crossed her office in four long, graceful strides to pick it up on the second ring. “Pierson.”
“Burke here.” It was the call she had been expecting, but her stocky, square-jawed CIA counterpart sounded uncharacteristically edgy. “Is your line secure?” he asked.
She toggled a switch on the phone, running a quick check for any sign of electronic surveillance. The FBI spent a lot of time and taxpayer money making sure its communications networks were untapped. An indicator light glowed green. She nodded. “We’re clear.”