The tall man beside the back door leveled a black semiautomatic-tic pistol at him. And Radford stepped closer, raising the .45.
"Be cool, Kertzman," the NSA man said. "All good things come to those who wait ... or something like that."
Milburn, the ex-Delta soldier and Gage's former supervisor, stepped out the back door, gazing into the darkness with a night-visor. Kertzman saw him shake his head.
"Your people have messed up, Stern," Milburn said to the tall man.
Kertzman notched it: Stern.
"You have the night visor!" said Stern. "Search for him! He is there!"
Milburn laughed with contempt. "A night visor doesn't mean anything against somebody like Gage, Stern. He knows how to beat it. You won't see him until he blows your brains out." He paused. "What was all that about how your people are the ultimate soldiers? The perfect predators? I'd like to hear that one again."
"Do as I say!" said Stern. "Find him!”
Milburn removed the night visor, stared solidly and scornfully at the tall man. "Your people were supposed to trap Gage inside, Stern! They didn't! Now he's on the loose and I guarantee you he's going to do some real serious damage. Real serious." He looked around the room, cold, adding, "Some of you are going to die."
"We have other contingency plans," said Stern, recovering. "We are not fools, Milburn." Then he looked at the German. "Carl! Bring her!"
"Leave her alone!" Kertzman shouted.
"Relax, Kertzman," Radford said, thumbing back the hammer. "What you say doesn't count anymore.” A pause. “Not that it ever did."
The German moved towards the back door with Sarah Halder, followed by Milburn, the Japanese, and Stern.
Kertzman's mind raced for something to stall them.
"Gage is out there," he said lamely.
Stern hesitated, turning to face Kertzman with aristocratic British calm. Kertzman thought that he seemed like a man professionally trained to handle catastrophes.
"Yes, Mr. Kertzman, he is," Stern replied. "And if he does anything precipitous, his beloved will die." Then he smiled evenly, opened the door.
Helpless, Kertzman watched as the German went outside first, moving Sarah in front of him as a shield. The Japanese followed, with Stern and Milburn in the rear.
Clumsily, suddenly faint, Kertzman fell against the wall, slamming his good hand heavily against the fireplace mantle. He breathed deeply, trying to get equilibrium. And he glanced around once more.
Barto and Sandman were unmoving. Malachi Halder stirred, as if in pain. And through a red haze Kertzman heard Radford speaking again.
"Don't make it worse, Kertzman," he continued. "It's over. It's been over."
Kertzman focused on him, mumbling, "You sold out, Radford. Sold out your country. That's why they picked you ... for the job. So you could sell us out ..."
Radford smiled, "For God and country, Kertzman? My God, you really are a simpleton," He leaning forward. "There's no such thing as countries anymore, Kertzman! Do you actually think that governments care about political objectives?" He shook his head. "That's the dark ages, man. This is the new world! Now there's only money. Lots and lots of money. And it can do anything. And it doesn't matter whose hand it comes from. It doesn't matter if he's Republican or Democrat or a Communist or a Chinese drug runner. If you've got the weight, you can call the shot." He stared a moment, suddenly more serious. "Any shot at all."
Kertzman's face was stone.
Radford continued, “You're a dinosaur, man. It's probably good that you die before you see the truth. It would drive you insane. They say there's a merciful god. He probably wants to kill you before you see what's really going on." He laughed. "Yeah, that's it – a merciful god who's gonna do you in. You believe in right and wrong, honor, God, country, all that. And look where it's got you." A pause. "Well, let me tell you something, partner. There's no such thing as right and wrong. There's just decisions. And none of 'em are wrong. You do whatever it takes to get to the top. You steal, you push 'em into the street, you sell 'em out. Only the strongest survive. That's the rule of the jungle, pal. And this is the jungle."
Radford continued to talk but Kertzman was no longer listening. Something had caught his attention, something subliminal. He waited, hoping to place it.
Sandman.
The big guy had fallen beside the kitchen table, his hands automatically clutching his abdomen as any wounded man would do, and Kertzman had not seen him move again. But now Sandman's right arm was stretched on the floor, the hand poised close to the left ankle.
Kertzman knew what was coming.
The Nigerian had gone back to the kitchen table, couldn't see Sandman. Only Radford had a clear view. So Kertzman turned into him, menacing and distracting, when he heard shouting outside.
"Gage, we have the woman!"
Coldly, Gage held the German in his sights, the front targeting blade of the MP5 fixed steadily between the blond man's eyes.
When the back door opened Gage had slid quickly and silently around the corner of the cabin, with Chavez retreating in the opposite direction. There was no time for communication, no time to signal. They would have to wing it. Now, prone in the shadows at 50 yards, he furiously calculated the next move. He didn't know what position Chavez had taken and no time to find out.
Hostage situations were always extremely volatile. Negotiation was the hard rule unless there was a clear shot. But this was no ordinary hostage situation. Negotiation wasn't an option because there could be no defusing of the situation, no persuasion. And killing the German wasn't an option because violence might cause him to pull the trigger of the shotgun.
A no-win situation.
If Gage hit him, even between the eyes, which he was certain he could do at this distance, the German's dead weight would still pull the single action on the shotgun, probably on both barrels.
But a single rule came to Gage as he lay prone in the darkness, the MP5 still centered on the German: He would not surrender his weapon.
No matter what they promised, no matter what they threatened, he would not surrender his weapon. Because as long as he was moving, as long as he could still strike and react, there was a chance he could create a new situation that might free Sarah.
"Gage, come out!" the tall man shouted. "It is over! I will give you ten seconds! If you do not show yourself in ten seconds we will kill her!"
*
Gage concentrated.
"Gage!" the man shouted again. "Do you hear me!"
Gage felt the rage, the heat, and he decided. Create a new situation! Shutting down all emotion, Gage stood, instantly visible and instantly menacing. Then, to everyone's apparent shock, he walked quickly toward them, the MP5 in one hand, the Hi-Power in the other.
"Stop where you are!" the tall man shouted, pointing a semiautomatic pistol at him.
Gage smiled savagely.
Advancing.
"Stop!"
Gage laughed.
His fingers tightened on the triggers.
*
THIRTY-SEVEN
Gage stopped six feet in front of the tall man, raising the Hi-Power in his right hand, pointing at the face.
"Stop or she dies!" the man shouted.
With his left hand Gage raised the MP5 and pointed it toward Sato and Milburn. All three of them had leveled pistols at him, holding eye-sight aim. The fourth man, the German, shouted something, shifting quickly from side to side.
"What are you gonna do?" Gage said, angry.
"Throw down your weapon or I’ll kill her."
Gage laughed. "Then kill her."
Shock was evident in the tall man's face.
Sato laughed out loud.
"And then one second later, I'll kill you," Gage said.
The tall man hesitated, blinked. "You'll die too, Gage."
Gage thumbed back the hammer on the Hi-Power. "Like I care."
Sarah made a faint sound, a choked-off cry of panic.
"Alright, alright." T
he tall man motioned with his free hand. "Let's calm down. If we can only ..." He looked at Sato to finish the sentence.
"Don't!" Gage shouted.
The tall man froze, moved only his eyes to stare nervously.
Utter stillness.
"Before you die, I want to know your name," Gage whispered.
The tall man's eyes were focused on the barrel of the Hi-Power but he seemed to grow steadily calmer, recovering from Gage's suicidal move, finding balance in it.
"My name is Stern."
"Well, Stern," said Gage, "Sato's good, but he ain't that good. I’ll kill him and you, too, if he makes a move." He nodded curtly. "Try me."
Stern watched him. "Yes, but you will not get Carl or Milburn, will you, Gage? You will shoot me, yes, and probably Sato. But Milburn will kill you. It is unavoidable. And then Carl will kill the woman."
"Maybe," Gage replied, placing a name on the German without removing his eyes from Stern. "But that won't mean a lot to you because you'll be in Hell."
Inside the cabin a loud argument erupted between Kertzman and Radford. It sounded as if it were on the verge of further violence.
"Very well," said Stern quickly, the air crisp with an electric tension. "How do you wish to resolve this?"
"Let her go. We'll work out the rest later." Gage said it more quickly than he intended, regretted it instantly. It revealed nervousness, weakness.
"No," said Stern evenly.
Abruptly, in the darkness beside the cabin, Gage saw a faint shadow move, low and quiet, toward the back of Carl.
Chavez.
Gage took another step toward Stern, drawing sharp attention to himself. "Last chance, Stern," he said. "Let her go."
Stern smiled, shook his head. "No. She is our insurance, Gage. Our plans have not worked as well as I had intended. But I know you will not interfere as long as we have her with us. We will be taking her father, as well."
Milburn shifted and Gage focused on him.
"Did they pay you enough for this, Bob?"
"It's just money, Gage," Milburn replied, tired. "If it wasn't me, it'd be somebody else."
"Why'd you set us up to die in Israel, Bob? Why'd you set the whole team up? Was that about money, too? Do you know how they did it?" Gage's voice became angrier with each word. "They cut us to pieces! Sammy and Brock and me and the rest of the team! We never stood a chance! Everybody died. Was it worth the money, Bob?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Who did it? These people? Are these the people who told you to sell us out? Are these the people that got rich off Black Light?"
Milburn shook his head. "It wasn't my call."
Gage laughed harshly. "And whose call was it, Bob? Who did Black Light really work for? Tell me! Who got rich off all that blood?"
"It's way beyond you, Gage," he answered. "Let it go."
"Too late."
But Gage felt the situation turning away from him. His finger tightened on the trigger of the Hi-Power. A half-ounce more of pressure and it would end. For all of them.
He centered on Stern. "Time's up. Let her go or die."
Stern shook his head. "No, Gage. You are, as the Americans would say, bluffing. You will do nothing that precipitates her death."
The argument inside the cabin got louder.
Chavez moved closer to Carl's back.
Four more steps; four more steps and Chavez would be on the German. Gage knew how Chavez would execute the maneuver. He had done it a hundred times, himself, in training.
The standard method for disarming someone with a single action weapon was to slam your hand down in the space between the cocked hammer and the firing pin before the offender could shoot, while simultaneously grabbing the underside of the weapon with your other hand. Automatically, with the attack, the offender would pull the trigger. But with a hand or finger placed between the hammer and the firing pin, the weapon would not discharge. It was a move that required the speed and accuracy of a snake. Once someone gripped the weapon, it could not be released until the offender had been killed.
Chavez could pull it off, but as soon as he grabbed the weapon Gage would have to instantly kill Carl, and then try to take out Stern, Milburn and Sato in one sweeping burst.
But the German had to be first.
A wave of hidden panic passed through Gage, a stark trembling fear. And his mind recognized the truth, stressed it over and over again until his higher consciousness was smothered by it: There were too many of them.
Gage knew he couldn't make the shots alone, and Chavez wouldn't be able to help because he would be preoccupied with holding the hammer back on the shotgun.
Calculating the move, Gage knew without doubt that he would have time to take out the German, a half-second to acquire and fire the shot. But the light was bad here. Even at six feet, Gage could barely discern outlines. Of course, Sato and Milburn would be in action instantly, even as he killed Carl. Gage estimated that the Japanese would move as soon as Chavez came around Carl to grab the shotgun.
Locking down on his control, Gage ignored a panicked sweat, concentrated to keep his face completely calm. His eyes focused intently on Stern but he was prepared to switch instantly to Carl.
Chavez moved again, silent and low to the ground, directly behind the German.
Three more steps.
"We're leaving," said Stern, backing up. Carl also moved back.
"No!" shouted Gage, swinging the Hi-Power toward Carl.
"Wait!" yelled Sato.
Together they froze in position.
As calmly as a snake feasting on dead prey, the Japanese turned slowly, leveling a Desert Eagle .44 semiautomatic pistol at Chavez, who still stood three paces behind Carl.
Gage grimaced.
This was unreal. By some kind of uncanny intuition or peripheral gift of sight, the Japanese had known all along that Chavez was behind them, and had waited until the last moment to reveal it. He had toyed with them – with all of them.
Chavez turned to Sato, gazing at him with a despising contempt, straightening. The M-14 was slung across his back. His hands were empty.
Still holding the large black semiauto on Chavez, Sato turned to Gage.
"Don't do it." Gage raised the MP5 to shoulder level, centering on Sato. “I’ll burn this down."
Sato laughed out loud.
Stern turned to Carl. "Put her in the car!"
Gage moved but felt the situation on the brink and hesitated. Deep inside he knew his next move, his last move. He opened his mouth to speak. "If you—"
Gunfire exploded inside the cabin. Stern shouted and fired at Gage.
Sato fired at Chavez.
Gage dropped instantly to the ground, firing both weapons as fast as he could pull the triggers and then he was rolling, firing as the ground beside him erupted volcanically in flames and fire and explosions with men screaming in panic and fear.
*
Kertzman leaped to smash a bull shoulder into Radford even as Sandman pulled the backup weapon from his ankle and rolled, firing a round into the gigantic Nigerian.
Screaming, Radford was thrown back by the collision and the .45 discharged to the side.
Missed!
Kertzman's uninjured left hand crashed down on the semiauto, straining, wrestling to tear it from Radford's grip as gunfire exploded in the kitchen.
With a roar Kertzman simply tore the gun from Radford's hand, savagely overpowering the NSA man with sheer brute force. Then he swung an elbow back, smashing into Radford's face. Shouting wildly, Radford stumbled back, grasping convulsively at his face and Kertzman whirled, leveling the .45 at the Nigerian.
Sandman fired four bursts from his prone position on the floor, and the Nigerian cut loose at him with the AK-47.
Kertzman fired.
With the first shot the Nigerian staggered, howling. Spun around by the thunderous impact of the bullet, he stared at Kertzman in shock before he screamed, raising the AK-47.
Sandman fell back, limp.
Enraged wi
th a cold and experienced aim, Kertzman fired again.
The Nigerian stumbled back, his ballistic vest exploding at the impact of the .45 caliber round. Kertzman pulled the trigger two more times; the second shot blew the vest open on the right side, a lung. The third shot hit high in the chest, nailing the Nigerian to the wall. The barrel of the AK-47 had dropped off aim, pointed at the floor.
Kertzman heard nothing, saw nothing but the hulking form in front of him. He shouted, all else forgotten or ignored, and took an extra half-second for a solid sight-picture alignment. With almost surreal concentration he fixed the front blade of the .45 over the center of the Nigerian's chest, even as he stumbled away from the wall, raising the rifle again.
A standard police rule from his days as a state trooper raged over and over in Kertzman's head with blood-white adrenaline: Shoot until the aggression stops ... Shoot until the aggression stops ... Shoot until the aggression stops.
Kertzman pulled the trigger.
Deafening blast. Knew he'd hit.
Mist erupted from the Nigerian's chest with shredded white ballistic material and the giant stumbled, swaying. Kertzman held aim, counting the one round he had left in the clip, watching for the final result.
Shoot until the aggression stops ... Shoot until the aggression stops ... Shoot until ...
Staggering, the Nigerian fell to his knees.
Kertzman, blood hot, raging, stared wide-eyed.
The Nigerian hesitated a moment as if hovering between Hell and Earth before pitching forward onto his face. The AK-47 clattered to his side.
Kertzman glanced at Sandman, saw the bloody, massive wounds caused by the rifle, the silent and still form. But he was adrenalized and mentally shattered by the combat, had no energy and no emotion left for thought. Groaning, he rose from one knee, swinging the .45 toward Radford.
But the room was empty.
He grimaced, would have cursed the NSA man if he could have found breath. He glanced around, saw that the front door was open; the car that had driven up during the standoff was gone.
Suddenly a wave of dizziness swept across Kertzman, and he bent, losing focus. Black swept in from the edges but he resisted, fighting it. He raised his head, hands on his knees, struggling to think. But his blood was burned out by adrenaline, his thinking flowing with the speed.
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