Evan withdrew behind the door into the vault, rushing to swing the hefty door shut after him. He wasn’t worried about the initial explosion. He was worried about what was coming.
The assembly was close enough to the giant spool of det cord to propogate into a bigger boom.
He didn’t have to look up to know when it happened. The air told him. The molecules seemed to still as if drawing their breath, the stunned nanosecond of calm before the hurricane.
And then everything let go.
The blast hammered the vault door the remaining inches into the frame with enough force to knock Evan across the inside of the vault. He bowling-balled through the folding chair and racked up against the rear wall.
Bright orange flame lit the world around him—it was as though he’d flown into the sun. Heat pulsed through the Lexan walls, the ceiling, even the floor. He couldn’t see anything, and for a moment he worried that he’d underestimated the charge, that he was going to bring the whole goddamned chalet down on top of him.
But a fresh wind suctioned off the flames and black smoke from all around him, the vault emerging from its sheath of fire. As the air started to clear, he looked up to see the massive chandelier plummeting down at him. By instinct he covered his head. The chandelier shattered across the transparent roof into a million brilliant pieces, each facet lit with a yellow lick of flame.
Bits of crystal tinkled across the hardwood. Bodies twitched. The entire rear wall of the chalet had blown out. Snow drifted in, swirling among the ash, settling across the piano and the corpses—a wartime tableau.
His ears didn’t ring so much as scream. His head hummed.
The vault door had wobbled open again. Sprawled on his ass inside the Lexan box, Evan blinked, trying to draw the ballroom into full focus. The scene was biblical.
They lay dead. All of them. The chairs had slid to the walls, many of them still upright. Through the gaping hole where the wall had been, Evan heard the Dobermans somewhere outside, barking and barking, notes of terror mingled with their snarls.
With a groan he found his feet and lumbered out of the Lexan vault.
The air carried the scent of sap and snow and burned flesh. Across the ballroom Sark’s charred body lay sprawled in a heap of others against the wall, his face and chest missing as if scooped out. He’d almost made it to the kitchen.
Impossibly, he wiggled.
Evan stared with incredulity. Sark heaved upward, and for a moment Evan thought he was going to sit up stiffly, a B-movie vampire rising from his coffin. But then René squirmed out from beneath the wrecked corpse. He staggered a few steps and leaned heavily against the wall.
Ash painted his forehead, and his cheeks looked raw. Evan stepped forward and raised the .45, and René swung his head heavily to face him.
The two men stared at each other across the churning air of the ballroom.
René lifted a hand, fingers splayed. “Let’s—”
Evan shot him in the chest.
René slammed against the wall. Something fell from his pocket, bouncing over the jumbled bodies before coming to rest on the floor.
A vial filled with a familiar viscous clear fluid.
René let out a cry, his fingers clutching his rib cage. Muted sobs shuddered his shoulders.
Then he straightened up. His hands fell away. In his palm a flattened slug.
Evan’s head swam with impossibilities—René’s vampiric experiments had made him bulletproof? But then logic kicked in. Images assembled slowly in his mind, the way René’s jacket never wrinkled, how the fabric seemed to buckle rather than fold.
The suit was bulletproof.
Over the years Evan had heard of civilian clothing built with the same carbon nanotubes used in flexible body armor. And now he’d wasted his last bullet firing into an impenetrable navy plaid coat.
René coughed, doubling over and clutching his ribs. He glanced at the vast opening blown through the rear wall a few feet away. Grimacing, he forced himself upright.
Evan cast aside the empty Kimber and advanced on him.
Still holding his ribs, René hobbled for the hole.
Evan had only taken his first step when he heard movement behind him. Xalbador stumbled through the rear doorway; the explosion had blasted him right across the threshold into the hall. He looked ragged, dragging one foot. Blood crusted his earlobes, and he was making unintelligible noises. The Kalashnikov dangled around his shoulder from its strap.
With an injured arm, he tried to tug the AK up to aim at Evan. The barrel lifted a few inches, firing into the floor past the tips of Xalbador’s boots. He struggled to support the gun with his other hand, to raise it higher and bring Evan into the sights.
Evan halted in the middle of the ballroom, Xalbador behind him, René ahead. Xalbador managed to heft the gun closer to horizontal. The next burst chewed up the floorboards midway between him and Evan. The recoil knocked the AK from Xalbador’s hands. He clawed at it, drawing it up again from the strap.
Instinct surged in Evan to go for René. But if he did, he’d be leaving himself exposed, and Xalbador looked to be seconds away from steadying the AK.
Wheezing, René reached the edge of the crumbled wall. He cast a panicked look back at Evan and then slipped outside.
Evan turned and ran for Xalbador. Sweat greased the narco’s face. Biting his lower lip, Xalbador struggled to fight the gun back into position. His damaged arms couldn’t sustain the weight. As Evan closed in, the muzzle came up crooked, firing wildly to the side.
Evan kicked the gun free. Xalbador charged him, coming over the top of him, beating at his back with bony elbows. Evan held him low around the waist in a football tackle, Xalbador’s big gold belt buckle grinding his cheek. Gathering his legs beneath him, Evan unhooked the belt and reared back. He kicked Xalbador’s hip while tearing at the buckle, spinning the guard into an off-kilter 180, a string-pull top being launched.
Before Xalbador could reorient himself, Evan whipped the rodeo belt buckle at his face, clipping his chin. As Xalbador reeled back, Evan threaded the belt through the buckle, slung the makeshift noose over his head, and ripped him off his feet. Xalbador got a hand beneath the band of leather, his legs churning for traction.
Evan shot a glance at the blown-out back wall, his apprehension mounting. How many steps had René taken toward freedom by now? Twenty? Thirty?
Xalbador jackhammered himself back into Evan, and they tripped over a protruding floorboard, sprawling in opposite directions. Xalbador flung the belt off from around his head, but already Evan was on him, arm drawn back for the kill blow.
Electricity sparked at Evan’s neck, the charge knocking him off Xalbador. He convulsed on the floor, fresh-fallen snow icing his cheek. Twitching, he clawed at the shock collar.
Xalbador sat up, aiming the transmitter at Evan, his finger depressing the button.
When the explosion had thrown Evan across the vault, the bunched trash liner must have pulled free from beneath one of the contact points. Pain radiated, grinding through his collarbones, his ribs, the base of his skull. He forced himself to focus through the static dancing across his eyes, willing his body to move. A moment later his legs listened, scissor-kicking him into a spin on the floor, one boot weakly striking Xalbador’s arm. It was enough to dislodge the transmitter from Xalbador’s grip.
The jolt in Evan’s neck subsided. Snowflakes blew across his face, no salve for the burn circling his throat. Somewhere through the clouds of dust and ash, he registered the dogs’ barks. They sounded louder.
Louder was not good.
Evan shoved himself onto all fours, crawling toward the AK-47, his knees and hands skidding on the snow-slick floorboards. Behind him he sensed Xalbador rising, stumbling the opposite way after the fallen transmitter. Evan pulled himself forward with one hand, using the other to try to stuff the trash liner back into place. He had to put Xalbador down and get after René.
Evan got one hand on the AK when the shock hit. T
he pain was blinding, blurring his vision. He rolled onto his back, dragging the gun across his chest.
Xalbador strode toward him, pointing the transmitter. The first shock electrocuted Evan’s fingers, knocking his hand off the collar. The stinging intensified, lancing through his gums, searing his eye sockets. Evan dug deep through the pain, trying to get his brain to speak to his hands and make them obey.
He got them to clamp the gun. He could feel his mouth stretched Joker wide. His grip trembled, jogging the AK back and forth. Sweat drenched his face. Electricity crackled through his neck, a drumroll of needle points.
But he didn’t let go.
Xalbador quickened his step, rushing for Evan.
Across the ballroom the Dobermans spilled through the wreckage of the outer wall, sleek shadows coated with snow. Their heads oriented toward Evan, noses twitching, bat ears spiked.
Evan told his hands to firm the weapon. He told his arms to raise it. The tip of the AK wagged back and forth. He willed it another inch upward as Xalbador neared.
The dogs’ claws scrabbled across the wet floor.
Pain filled Evan’s head, turning the air opaque. He tried to see through the soup, tried to aim at Xalbador’s growing shape. His hands vibrated around the stock, the trigger.
Xalbador yelled, leaping for Evan.
Evan lanced bullets up his chest and tore the carotid right out of his neck. Xalbador landed in a heap at Evan’s feet, the transmitter skidding across the floor.
The circle of flame around Evan’s neck relented.
He hauled in a screeching breath, tasting oxygen for the first time in what seemed like days.
The Dobermans surged across the bodies toward Evan. For a second he considered shooting them so he could rush after René, but they were dogs and even bad dogs deserved the benefit of the doubt.
He dropped the AK, lunged for the transmitter. One of the Dobermans latched on to the cuff of his jeans, whipping his head back and forth. Evan kicked at him, twisting to grab the transmitter. The second dog landed on his chest. Evan barely had time to get an arm under the slender chin. Jaws snapped inches from his face, flecks of saliva spattering him. Even through the icy draft, he felt the heat of the dog’s breath. The first dog tore at his cuff, rattling the heel of his boot against the floor.
The fangs brushed Evan’s cheek. Holding off the jaws, he thumbed buttons on the transmitter blindly. At last he hit the red one, the shock collar unlatching from around his neck and sliding onto his chest.
Mustering what strength he could, he hurled the dog off. Snatching the open shock collar at the hinge, he wielded it like a weapon, the contact points aimed outward. The dog gathered himself and leapt. Evan jammed the collar into the dog’s open mouth and hit the shock button on the transmitter.
The dog twisted in midair, a fish breaking water, its yelp carrying up to the high ceiling and bouncing down again. His paws barely touched the hardwood before he bolted out of the ballroom, galloping for the safety of the hall. Leaning forward, Evan jabbed the live collar to the top of the other dog’s head, and the dog shot backward, releasing Evan’s cuff.
He considered Evan for a moment, teeth bared, head cocked, so Evan leaned forward and shocked him again. The dog bayed his confusion and took off, following the fresh paw prints out of the ballroom.
Evan sat there for a moment, his elbows resting on his knees.
He allowed himself two breaths.
But there were still snipers in the hills, a guard in the watchtower, Candy McClure and Orphan M loose somewhere in the building, and René making his getaway.
Evan stood up.
He grabbed the AK first. One of the dead guards had a nice thick jacket, which Evan appropriated, along with the full magazine from his gun. Trudging over to the jumble of corpses by the kitchen, he plucked up the vial that had fallen from René’s coat and regarded it in the light streaming through the back of the house.
Somewhere a helicopter started up, the sound of chopping rotors riding the breeze.
Pocketing the vial and readying the Kalashnikov, Evan stumbled through the demolished rear wall into the bracing winter day.
55
Almost There
BIG EXPLOSION AND FIREFIGHT DOWNSTAIRS.
HOLD HIM.
SOUNDS LIKE FALLUJAH DOWN THERE. WE HAVE NO WEAPONS.
GET SOME. PIN HIM DOWN.
COPY THAT. NEED BACKUP ASAP.
I’M BRINGING ALL THE BACKUP YOU’LL NEED.
ETA?
ALMOST THERE.
R WE CLEARED FOR KILL IF NECESSARY?
There was a pause, the longest pause Candy could remember Van Sciver ever taking. At last his text appeared.
YES.
* * *
The helicopter had lifted off by the time Evan ran around the corner of the chalet. On aggressive tilt, it forged into the eddies of snow. He aimed the AK, but the body of the helo had already vanished into the white, its lights out of reach. Panting, he watched until they, too, disappeared.
The guard in the watchtower was leaning over the railing, gazing at the wake of the helicopter through the scope of the rifle. Evan jogged up from the side, shouldering into the wooden supports, and fired directly up. The snow blunted his view, but he heard the wet thump of impact, and a moment later the rifle plummeted down from the heavens, lodging in the snowbank in front of him.
No dogs, no guards, no doctor, no David, no Dex.
Just two snipers in the hills.
And two Orphans in the house.
Evan stepped forward, snatched up the gun, and examined his haul.
An AR-10 in 7.62, clearly a designated marksman rifle. Evan could get almost seven hundred meters from it, but, given the snow, five hundred would be pushing it.
Not that he was complaining about the snow. Right now it was protecting him from the dedicated sniper rifles in the mountains; with a range up to fifteen hundred meters, they’d have a massive advantage once the air cleared.
Which it looked to be doing right now, the billows lessening in intensity, the snowfall growing more sparse by the minute.
A movement at the front door of the chalet hooked his attention—Candy and Orphan M spilling into view on the porch. Their heads tilted up, locking on Evan. They regarded one another across the distance.
He’d have no time to set up a shot on the rifle. They were beyond effective firing range of the AK-47, but Evan lifted it and gave them a greeting anyway. The rounds pulverized the stone porch, driving them back inside.
They’d have to regroup, scavenge weapons from the wreckage of the ballroom.
He’d better use the head start well.
Slinging the AR-10 over a shoulder, he jammed a new mag into the AK and bolted for the tree cover of the south slope. The snow thinned before his eyes, the gleam of the afternoon sun cutting through the haze.
At that instant something lasered into the ground a few feet from his boots, the spray peppering the right side of his body. A moment later a supersonic crack announced the shot.
Evan cut sharply. With a quick glance, he registered a glint of reflected light past the bulge two-thirds up the mountain, a fine long-distance overwatch position. The sound of another shot rolled across the valley, but he’d heard no impact, the round having sailed wider than the previous one. He dove over a fallen log, skidding into the safe embrace of the densely packed tree trunks, and sat, panting. He gave a moment of thanks for the south sniper’s mediocrity; the north sniper would’ve tunneled a hole through Evan’s rib cage.
He stood up, took stock of the weapons, and sprinted into the pines. He had to take out the south sniper and get over the brink before nightfall. Candy and M would be on his heels soon enough.
Rather than cut directly upslope as the sniper might anticipate, he sliced horizontally around the base of the woods to pop out on the far side of the bulge. It was slow going, his boots sinking into the snow, but he managed to hold a steady pace.
When he reached a ravine, he he
ld several paces back from the last row of trees. Keeping to the shadows, he scanned the mountainside through the AR-10’s scope. Greens and browns streaked together, and then he scanned past a spot of flesh.
He rotated the scope back.
Sure enough, the sniper was taking a position higher on the bulge, angling down onto the patch of pines directly up from where he’d last spotted Evan. The sniper crawled over an outcrop, at one point rising to full height.
The average man is one meter from crown to crotch, a useful measurement for optically determining distance to target. To gauge the sniper’s position, Evan fitted him between the horizontal lines of the stadia. Five hundred meters out. The man pushed on upslope, diminishing another notch. Five twenty-five.
Evan consulted the range card taped to the butt stock. The laminated square of paper noted the specific ballistics for the hand load of the rifle. How much the bullet dropped per hundred yards. Range solutions. The exterior trajectory of the projectile.
Bracing the rifle on a flat patch of shale, he dialed an elevation into the scope to correct the aim for the ballistic arc at 525 meters. When he focused again, the sniper was gone.
Closing his right eye, Evan pressed his left to the rubber cup and sighted on a thicket of trees next to the outcrop.
Nothing. The guy had vanished.
A whip-poor-will called from the treetops, the agitated warble scoring Evan’s mounting uneasiness.
He’d set up for an ambush. Not a firefight. Under close scrutiny he’d be visible through the patchwork of branches and leaves. But if he repositioned now, his movement could draw the sniper’s eye.
The sniper had been focused eastward; he had no reason to search in Evan’s direction. Unless something else had grabbed his focus. Something that had made him seek cover from anyone along the very sight line on which Evan had situated himself.
Very slowly, Evan shifted from his belly onto his side and peered down through the woods to the valley floor. Way below, a few slivers of the chalet were visible between the trunks. Something darted across one of the slim gaps, trailing blond hair.
Candy McClure. A moment later there was a second flash, lower to the ground.
The Nowhere Man--An Orphan X Novel Page 24