“We have to destroy Cyberdyne’s main facility, now!’” she said to Dieter. Her voice was thick, and tense, but under the circumstances it sounded amazingly calm.
Von Rossbach’s jaw worked. It would almost have felt better to have her throwing accusations at him. He glanced at her, then looked back at the road.
“I have no desire to commit suicide, Sarah,” he said firmly. “If we’re going for Cyberdyne I’ll need a day, at least, to set it up. We still need to find out exactly where it is.”
What do I need him for? Sarah wondered numbly, staring straight ahead.
Listening to him has screwed this up from the get-go. If she was genuinely paranoid, as she’d been diagnosed, she’d suspect von Rossbach of being sent by Skynet.
But she couldn’t blame him for this mess. She’d gone along with every suggestion, allowing herself to be persuaded against her better judgment. There’s nobody to blame for that except myself, she thought.
Her eyes slid sideways, regarding the man beside her. He might yet be useful.
She could scarcely walk onto Cyberdyne property all by herself.
Slowly she dragged herself back up onto her metaphorical feet. The wound might feel mortal, but she wasn’t close to dead yet. Something those bastards at Cyberdyne were going to learn to their sorrow. Sarah Connor was a long way
from defeated.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ADVANCED TECHNOLOGY SYSTEMS,
SACRAMENTO: THE PRESENT
As the lights went out Jordan knew that—once again— Serena’s info had been good. His mouth began to go dry and his hand automatically went to the Clock bolstered under his armpit, excitement pumping into his blood, and driving out the drowsy boredom of the stuffy, silent suite of offices.
Ideally he wouldn’t have to use the gun; so far he never had. But things are rarely ideal for the good guys when they’re dealing with Sarah Connor.
The Three Stooges stood around like furniture. They didn’t move, they didn’t talk. They watched the door. Occasionally, as if making a concession, they blinked.
Never thought I’d miss their scanning the horizon, Jordan thought. They were downright lively then.
The office had only one unblocked window, which was in the president’s office at the back of the building. Feeling a need to get away from the creeps, Jordan decided to check it out.
They’re just as likely to come down from the roof as up the stairs, he reasoned. In fact that’s what he would probably do. Not that he’d ever gone in for that rah-rah commando stuff that some agents loved. He suspected that Sarah Connor did.
They’d sent the few employees there home and the dark office was full of suspicious shadows cast by the emergency lights and eerily quiet as he moved through it. Already the air seemed to be going stale. A rectangle of gray light shone through the frosted glass in the president’s door and brightened the area around it slightly.
Jordan listened, then quickly opened the door and stood back, heart pounding, even though he’d really expected the room to be empty.
It was. He moved to the window, and standing back out of sight, studied the parking lot below. It, too, was empty.
C’mon, c’mon, he thought. Where the hell are you? He moved to the other side of the window and checked out the lot from that angle. Still nothing. With a sigh he started back toward the front office.
A flash and the percussive burst of a grenade followed by the sudden sharp pops of gunfire brought him up to a run. The front office had been miraculously spared
—except for the receptionist’s heavy desk, which was scrap. But there was no fire and his backup were all on their feet and heading through the door.
A sensation like a bolt of electricity shot through him when he saw a piece of shrapnel sticking out of the back of Lewis’s naked head. Jordan fumbled a step at the sight. The three moved out into the corridor single file, then, as one, they each brought up their guns and fired. More gunfire met theirs in the hall. There was the sound of a machine pistol and a shotgun’s heavy thudding boom, and the slight sharp nose-crinkling smell of burnt nitro powder.
Jordan sped up. He reached the door just in time to see the three of them aim at a boy collapsed on the floor.
“Are you insane?” Jordan shouted. He pushed his way between Lewis and the kid on the floor. “Get them,” he ordered, pointing toward the stairway. “I’ll take care of the prisoner.”
Jordan felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as the three froze. One he could take, but not three. If they decided to take him out—and it sure looked like they were thinking about it—there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop them.
Then they turned and jogged down the hallway without a backward glance. The piece of shrapnel in Lewis’s scalp came loose and hit the floor with a tiny ping!
It wasn’t until then that Jordan realized that Lewis’s whole front had been a mass of blood, his shirt hanging in patches where it hadn’t been pounded into the raw meat of his chest. Which meant that Lewis ought to be screaming, or possibly dying of shock and blood-loss…
Jordan put the sight firmly from his mind and knelt beside the boy; Lewis couldn’t be that badly hurt, or he wouldn’t be moving so well. This had to be John Connor—her son. The boy who was supposed to save humankind from the machines.
The kid had crashed headfirst into the wall; the plasterboard was dented and there was blood in his hair and on the floor when Jordan turned him over. There was a wound in his shoulder, too.
No time for that, Jordan told himself. He hoisted the boy up and pulled him onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Then he headed for the back stairway. He
didn’t know just what was going on with those three, but he had no intention of letting them near John Connor if he could help it. He was—had been—FBI, not part of some cowboy kill-for-hire outfit.
As he came out into the parking lot he fumbled one-handed for his keys and hit the button on the key ring that unlocked the doors. He opened the back door and awkwardly laid the boy down on the backseat. He was pushing the kid’s legs inside when Bob Harris came around the corner and froze.
Jordan jumped into the car and rolled himself over the seat into the driver’s side.
With a shaking hand he jammed the key into the ignition, thrilled that it was the right key, started the car, and backed up. Then he peeled rubber as he sped into the street, leaving skid marks and a low plume of black smoke behind him. The back door slammed shut and the kid half fell off the seat behind him. Shit!
Jordan thought. I should have just put him on the floor in the first place.
He pressed his foot onto the accelerator and ignored everything he knew about responsible driving. Bob’s big hand hit the fender with an audible thump. Dyson jumped and looked in the rearview mirror. His erstwhile backup’s face was as calm as if he were having a cup of coffee with friends. His arms pumped and he came even with the car once again and reached toward the door handle.
Jordan checked the speed. Thirty-five. Jesus, God! he thought, and pressed down on the accelerator. Bob seemed to be keeping up with ease. Once more Jordan pushed the gas and they finally sped away from the big man. Forty miles an hour. Dyson’s breath was hissing between his teeth and he felt light-headed, almost faint. What the hell was that? he wondered. What in the hell was that?
People could do insane things when hopped up on adrenaline, he reminded
himself. But why? What could the Connors possibly have done to them that’s worse than what they did to me? What would drive a man to run forty miles an hour to commit murder? Because they were going to kill John Connor, of that Jordan had no doubt.
And in spite of everything, I don’t want to kill him, or his mother. See them in jail until they rotted, sure. He’d gladly see that day come. But he wasn’t about to murder a kid! Not even Sarah Connor’s son.
So where had Burns found these maniacs? They were stone killers if he’d ever seen any, which he had. Was she aware of what they w
ere? Given her track record so far he had to believe that very little happened around Serena Burns that she wasn’t fully aware of.
He plucked the cell phone from his pocket and dialed.
The phone rang once and was answered. “Burns.”
“Would you like to tell me just what the hell is going on, Serena?” Jordan demanded, his voice carefully cold.
There was a pause.
“Isn’t that what I should be asking you?” she said. “Did they show up? Or… they didn’t and you’re mad at me because of it.”
In fact, she knew exactly what had happened: Six had given her a full report.
Dyson had the boy, and if she wanted him—and she did— then this conversation needed to be handled very carefully. Jordan, she realized, would have to be
eliminated as soon and as discreetly as possible.
“Oh, they showed up all right. And one of your boys almost blew the kid away.”
” What? What are you talking about?” Serena put as much exasperation and confusion as she dared into the questions. “Could you please just tell me what happened? Because so far you haven’t been very coherent.”
Jordan drew a deep breath. Maybe that was true.
“Those three men you sent with me,” he said slowly, “did their utmost to kill the Connors and their friend. They were so set on it that I can’t help but believe that they were ordered to do so.”
Maybe that’s saying too much, he thought. If Serena had issued orders to kill, then he wasn’t going to prolong his own life by making statements like that one.
I guess maybe I’m a little more panicked than I want to admit. The image of a bland-faced Bob Harris reaching out and almost touching the car while the speedometer registered forty mph kept coming back to him.
“Whoa! Jordan,” she said, sounding very indignant. “Slow down here! I did not give anybody orders to kill! Okay?” The T-950 paused for a count often.
” Why would I do that?” she said reasonably. “In what way would that make anything better? Huh?” Another pause. “Can you imagine what the papers would make of it? Can you ‘tmagine the questions we’d get asked?
“And why, Jordan? Why? I’m just as happy to have them in prison as dead! All I want is for Cyberdyne to be safe. But it’s a company, Jordan. It’s not my family,
it’s not anybody’s family. There’s no question of anyone having to die to protect it. Get real!”
He felt almost embarrassed. Serena was making sense here. But what about what I saw?
“Look, Serena, all I know is how they were acting. I mean, I never saw these guys before—”
“Well, neither have I. I sent down to the security shack for three guys who would be willing to travel overnight and those were the guys they sent up. I will check into it as soon as I hang up. Obviously we have a hiring problem.”
She waited a moment then let out an exasperated breath.
“Jordan! What the hell happened? Did you arrest the Connors? Are they dead?
Oh, God, please tell me they’re not!”
“Nobody’s dead,” Jordan assured her. “Sarah and their friend, a big guy, got away. But I’ve got the kid in the backseat, bleeding all over the cushions.”
“Oh, God,” she repeated. It sounded right. “How badly is he hurt?”
“To be honest, I don’t know,” Jordan confessed. “I just got him into the car and ran.”
“I suggest you pull over, now, and take a look,” she said firmly. “I’ll wait.”
Jordan frowned. He didn’t want to stop driving; he fully expected to see Bob come running up the road, even though he knew that was ridiculous.
“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, and pulled off the shoulder. Then he got out, opened the back door, and climbed in. The boy was unconscious, or mostly so; a bright, white line showed between his lashes. Dyson pulled him back up onto the seat and the kid moaned.
Jordan lifted the boy’s eyelids. One pupil was noticeably larger than the other: concussion for certain. But his color was good and he didn’t seem to be going into shock.
Dyson ripped the neck of John’s T-shirt and looked at the gunshot wound: the bullet had gone straight through without breaking the bone or cutting major arteries. It was still bleeding pretty freely, though. Dyson tore John’s shirt off completely and then ripped it in half, making two pads of the soft material. Then he stripped off his tie and bound the pads in place as best he could.
The head wound worried him. It was bloody, all head wounds were, but the cut was basically superficial. It was the evidence of concussion that bothered him.
Anything might be going on inside the kid’s head, there was no way to tell. He gently probed the area around the wound and sighed with relief when he felt solid bone.
Jordan shook his head. He needed expert help on this. Climbing into the front seat again, he picked up the phone. “Serena?”
“I thought you weren’t coming back,” she said, sounding relieved. “Well?”
Jordan hesitated. “He seems stable right now. But he has a concussion and that’s not something to take lightly. I’m going to take him to the hospital.”
“No!” Serena said, letting her voice shrill with alarm. “Jordan, you can’t. You have to bring him here. We have a top-notch medical facility right here. We’ll give him the best care available. Bring him here!”
“Serena,” Jordan said slowly, “what are you thinking of? This kid is hurt, dammit! He has a head wound. Maybe you’re prepared to take the blame if he dies or suffers brain damage, but I don’t want that on my conscience.”
“Jordan, his crazy mother is still out there somewhere. And right now she’s probably very, very angry. Given her record, she’s heading for Cyberdyne with blood in her eye.
“If we can show her that her son is alive and that we’re taking good care of him, right here at what she might well consider ground zero, then maybe she won’t hurt anyone. Do you want the deaths of who knows how many scientists and secretaries and who knows who else on your conscience?”
Jordan compressed his lips and thought. She was probably right.
Connor was probably headed toward Cyberdyne. And he personally knew what kind of mayhem she was capable of causing. But the one thing in her life that Sarah Connor had always been careful of was her son.
“Okay, look,” he said. “I’ll just get him looked over and I’ll send him on to you by ambulance.”
“Jordan! He’s been shot! That means that any doctor or clinic or hospital you take him to has to report it to the police. Then the police have to come and
question everybody, then everybody has to wait for somebody, somewhere to give you permission to send him down here. By then we could be a smoking hole in the ground.”
“It’s three hours to Cyberdyne,” he snapped.
“If the kid is stable that won’t matter. You said he was stable,” Serena insisted.
Jordan rubbed his face with his hands. “All right, you mentioned the police,” he said. “What are they going to say when they find out that I’ve dragged this boy down there and didn’t report the shooting, and didn’t take him to the hospital, and didn’t stay here in Sacramento to be questioned, and didn’t report his fugitive, cop-killer mother’s presence in their town. You do realize that you’re asking me to break the law, don’t you?”
“I do,” she said solemnly. “And I’ll take the responsibility. Since we’ll undoubtedly be shooting it out with Connor and her allies before the day is out, I think we can plead mitigating circumstances. Make him as comfortable as you can and bring him here. His presence in this facility is the only thing that will stop that maniac.”
Serena stopped herself. It was time to stand back and see if she’d convinced him.
Jordan was silent, thinking about what she’d said, thinking about how Connor had killed his brother and destroyed his work. Tried to destroy it, he amended.
Burns was right; Cyberdyne would draw Connor like a magnet. And this time she might very
well not wait until the place was empty to strike. Not if she’s looking for revenge as well as serving whatever crazy cause she’s into. And the truth was, he wanted to be there when she arrived, not sitting in the police station
answering questions.
“All right,” he agreed. “I’m on my way.”
It was wrong, and he knew it, but this was something he’d worked toward for six long years, it was easier to get forgiveness than permission.
Jordan stopped at the first store he saw and bought bandages, alcohol, a blanket and pillow, and some aspirin and bottled water. Then he rushed back to the car parked at the deserted far end of the parking lot and opened the back door.
Connor was conscious, but just barely.
The scalp wound was still bleeding, but sluggishly and it wasn’t as deep as he’d feared. He poured some water on a sterile pad and wiped the blood away, then poured alcohol onto another and wiped the wound. Connor hissed through his teeth and his eyes flared open at the pain.
“Sony,” Dyson muttered. “At least you know you’re alive.”
“M’mother’d say “at,” the boy mumbled.
Jordan smiled grimly.
“From what I’ve read about her, I believe you,” he said.
The shoulder wound was another matter, a far deeper wound.
Jordan wiped away the blood, then flushed it with alcohol.
“Ssssshitt!” John shrieked, jerking upright, teeth clenched, muscles straining, then he flopped back onto the seat panting like a steam engine.
“Easy,” Jordan said.
“Easy?” John rasped. “Easy… for you… to say.”
Jordan gave him a quick look, he heard the boy’s voice shaking and it worried him. But he wasn’t looking any worse. If anything, he was looking more alert. Of course, so would I if some bastard did that to me.
“Why don’t you just take me to a hospital?” John asked.
His eyes tried to catch Jordan’s. This was a human. That was unmistakable, but from what he’d heard a few moments ago he was the super-Terminator’s cat’spaw.
Infiltrator t2-1 Page 45