Текст книги "The Last Oracle (2008)"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Is that all? Like I said, I've done this many times before. Abroad and here.

Painter cut into the conversation. He spoke into a microphone that broadcast through speakers on that floor. Mapplethorpe!

The man jolted, but he kept his pistol steady. He searched around, then found the camera on the wall. He regained his composure, his lips settling into a sneer of derision. Ah, Director, so you haven't evacuated with the rest of your people. Very good. Then let us end this quickly. Bring up the girl, and no one else needs to get hurt.

Painter spoke into the microphone. We've already taken out your man,

Mapplethorpe, and hidden the girl where you won't find her.

Is that so? Mapplethorpe sniffed a bit at the air. I see you've activated

Sigma's fail-safe program.

Painter felt a chill. The man had obtained more than just their base schematics; he'd tapped deep into their protocols. Sean had warned him about Mapplethorpe.

The bastard had his fingers everywhere, a black spider dancing in the intelligence web. His oily and bland demeanor hid a much more dangerous core.

And I believe you've set the timer for zero one hundred, Mapplethorpe said, confirming the depths of his intel. We've been unable to decrypt the code to stop it, but something tells me we won't have to. Not with my holding twenty hostages above. Twenty of your men and women. With families and lives beyond these walls. I don't think you've got the brass balls to let them die, to be slain by your own hand. Whereas I

Mapplethorpe lifted his gun to the back of Sean's head.

have no such qualms.

The man fired. The pistol blast overloaded the speakers, turning into a digital pop and squawk. Sean fell to his knees, then to the floor.

Painter's chest tightened, unable to take a breath. Disbelief rang through him.

A part of him expected Sean to stand back up, to shake off the attack. But just as quickly, a flame as hot as the coming firestorm burned through Painter.

Stunned at the man's brutality and callousness, Painter could form no words.

Unlike his adversary.

Mapplethorpe's voice returned. We're coming for that girl, Director. And no one is going to stop us.

18

September 7, 10:38 A. M.

Pripyat, Ukraine

Gray secured the black belt over the Russian field jacket, camouflaged in forest green. He stamped his feet more securely into the boots. Kowalski tossed him a furred cap. The stolen uniform fit decently, but his partner's outfit looked ready to burst at the seams. The two Russian soldiers, stripped to their underclothes, had been posted at the front of the jailhouse. Caught by surprise, it had not been hard to knock them out and secure the uniforms.

Let's go, Gray said and headed to a motorcycle.

Shotgun, Kowalski called out.

Gray glanced over, realizing the man was not talking about a weapon. They both had AN-94 Russian assault rifles.

Kowalski eyed the sidecar to the IMZ-Ural motorcycle. Always wanted to ride in one of these, he said and climbed into the open car.

Gray shifted the rifle over a shoulder and hiked a leg over the seat.

Moments later, engine growling, they shot through the old prison gates and out into the weed-strewn streets of Pripyat. Gray checked his wristwatch.

Twenty minutes.

Leaning lower, he throttled up, goosed the gas, and sped through the faded, rusted city. The asphalt was broken, and shattered glass threatened the tires.

Around every corner, they met unexpected obstacles: abandoned rusted skeletons of automobiles, moss-covered old furniture, and even a strangely surreal stack of band instruments.

Despite the hazards, Gray raced at breakneck speeds, taking corners hard enough to lift the sidecar off its tire. Kowalski whooped a bit at these turns. They passed the occasional soldier patrolling the streets, who lifted a rifle or arm in greeting as they raced past; at other times, Gray spotted a flash of a haunted face peering through a broken window, one of the stray scavengers of the city.

Reaching the outskirts of Pripyat, Gray sped toward the horizon as a trio of deer sprang away from the roar of the cycle. He aimed for the towering ventilation stack of the reactor. Even over the roar of the cycle, he heard snatches of amplified voices rolling out from the grandstands. According to

Masterson, Senator Nicolas Solokov was planning some attack on those gathered here to observe the sealing of the Chernobyl reactor.

But what was the man's plan?

What was Operation Uranus?

As Gray raced down a freshly paved asphalt road, he studied the growing hulk of the Chernobyl complex ahead. His eyes were drawn to what looked like a gargantuan Quonset hut off to one side. The arched steel hangar reflected the morning sunlight like a mirror.

And it was moving.

Like oil on water, the sunlight flowed over its curved exterior. It closed slowly upon the Chernobyl reactor. Most of the complex was gray concrete and whitewashed surfaces, but along one side, a hulking structure stuck out along one edge, blackened like a dead tooth. It marked the grave of reactor number four, a massive black Sarcophagus. The rolling hangar, open at one end, sought to swallow the structure under its high arch.

As they drew closer, Gray's mind shuffled through possibilities. Archibald Polk had been exposed to a deadly level of radiation, possibly from here. Whatever

Nicolas was planning had to involve the old reactor. Nothing else made sense.

Masterson had warned that security would be high near the grandstands, especially with the number of dignitaries in attendance. The stands stood a quarter mile from the reactor. Gray weighed which path to take: to head for the grandstands or the reactor. What if he was wrong about the reactor? Could there be a bomb somewhere among the stands?

As the bike shot across the open plain between Pripyat and Chernobyl, a broadcasted voice reached him, echoing and hollow, extolling the virtues of nuclear cooperation in the new world. There was no mistaking that voice. Gray had attended several events at the White House.

It was the president of the United States.

Gray factored this into his account. The Secret Service would surely have canvassed the site, swept it multiple times, set up a strict protocol.

Additionally, the Secret Service would have agents on all sides of the reactor, again searching for any threat.

Gray studied the number of parked vehicles, the sea of satellite antennas. The entire grandstand area was cordoned off with fences, gates, and patrolling guards on foot and in open jeeps. While his disguise worked at a distance, Gray doubted the ruse would get him through to the stands. He had no identification, no passes for the event.

As he weighed his options, speeding toward the immense site, he was awed by the sheer size of the project. The giant steel hangar slowly trundled along a pair of tracks, pulled by whale-size hydraulic jacks. It had already reached the dead reactor and had begun to close over it, arching high into the sky, its steel now nearly blinding with sunlight, so tall that the Statue of Liberty could stand on her own shoulders and still not reach the roof of the arched hangar.

Even Kowalski whistled his appreciation at the dimensions of the rolling structure. He finally leaned over and called out, What's the plan when we ?

Gray lifted an arm, silencing him. A new voice had cut into the president's speech. Like the president, this speaker was also familiar. He spoke Russian, then repeated his words in English, playing for the international audience.

Senator Nicolas Solokov's voice boomed toward Gray. I protest this travesty! he bellowed. Here we all are, congratulating ourselves for erasing a shameful piece of Russian history for hiding it, as though it never happened, sweeping it under a steel rug. But what about those killed during the explosion, what about the hundreds of thousands doomed to die of cancers and leukemia, what of the thousands of babies born into deformity, pain, and mental debilitation? Who will speak for them?

Gray was now close enough to see the stage that rose before the amphitheater seating. Figures were too small to make out, but giant video screens flanked the stage. One displayed the Russian president, the other the United States's leader. Each president stood behind a podium. In the center of the stage, another figure stood amid chaos. Nicolas Solokov. Guards tried to haul the senator from the stage, while others protected him so he could speak. From all the milling confusion, Nicolas must have barged onto the stage to initiate this dramatic, televised protest.

Off to the side, men in black surrounded and shielded the president.

Whatever Nicolas had planned, it had begun. Gray leaned lower and gunned the engine. The motorcycle rocketed down the blacktop toward the stands.

The speaker squawked with electronic feedback, then Nicolas continued, shouting,

You all believe a handsome coffin like this marks an end to a blasted legacy, but it is all sham! The monster has already escaped its cage! No matter how large a lock or how strong the steel, you cannot put that monster back behind bars. The only real end to this legacy is to fundamentally change our attitudes, to set true and lasting policy. This ceremony is nothing more than a pale charade! All posture, no substance! We should be ashamed!

Finally, the guards overwhelmed the senator's supporters. Nicolas's microphone was ripped from his hands. He was dragged bodily off the stage.

The Russian president began speaking in his native tongue, sounding both angry and apologetic. The U. S. president motioned the agents to disperse, not wanting to appear spooked by a showboating politician. Speeches slowly resumed.

Behind them, the arch continued to swallow the reactor.

Gray slowed his bike. He still had a choice to make: to head to the grandstands or the reactor. He considered Nicolas's protest, his dramatic exit. It had all been artfully staged. The senator had plainly orchestrated a reason not to be at the event, to be taken away. But where? He would not leave that to chance. He would not risk being trapped in harm's way. Whoever had dragged Nicolas from the stage must be in his employ, removing him to safety.

Beyond the gaggle of TV vans, Gray spotted a green army jeep hightailing it away from the media area. It was on a dirt road that paralleled the eight-foot-tall tracks of the massive archway. The rutted path headed away from the reactor and curved around the end of the tracks toward the rear side of the complex.

Gray spotted a suited figure in the backseat.

Nicolas.

Gray stared upward. The blinding steel structure now consumed half of the blackened hulk of the Sarcophagus. In another fifteen minutes, it would close completely over the crypt. The grandstands rested a quarter mile away from the reactor.

Gray had to make a choice.

He pictured Nicolas Solokov seated behind the desk in the guard shack during the interrogation. From the cut of his clothes to the patterns of his speech, the man was arrogant and self-assured, an ego matched only by a need to control. It radiated out of him.

Nicolas would want to watch what was to come.

So why was he heading behind the reactor?

Unless

Gray swung the cycle off the blacktop and cut across the open fields. He headed straight for the end of the tracks, intending to intercept the vehicle as it rounded the bend in the road.

Pierce! Kowalski yelled. Where are we going?

To save the president.

But the grandstand's over that way! Kowalski pointed an arm in the opposite direction.

Ignoring him, Gray bounced the cycle like a dirt bike across the rolling plain.

Kowalski clutched tightly to the handrails. Gray gunned the engine and sped faster over the wild terrain. Mud and grass spattered behind him.

Ahead, the jeep raced alongside the four hundred yards of tracks. The vehicle was almost to the end. It would be close. Gray was still a football field away from the road.

And they'd been spotted.

An arm pointed toward their racing motorcycle. From the distance, Gray and

Kowalski would appear to be Russian soldiers out for a joy ride. Confusion should reign for a moment in the jeep. That's all they would have.

Kowalski!

What?

Can you take out one of their rear tires as they make that curve?

Are you nuts? he asked, his voice rattling with the bike.

Hang on.

Gray angled the bike into a dry sandy wash. Floods had swept the stretch fairly flat and smooth.

Take your shot! he yelled to Kowalski.

The large man already had his assault rifle up. Kowalski braced himself in the sidecar and brought the rifle to his shoulder. Gray heard him almost purr to his weapon. C'mon, baby, make Daddy proud.

Directly ahead, the jeep had reached the end of the tracks. It slowed to make the sharp turn but still took the corner hard. The driver fought to hold his vehicle to the road.

Gray heard a pop-pop from the sidecar. The Russian AN-94 fired double shots with every squeeze. At the same time, the jeep suddenly fishtailed as the driver lost control, his left rear tire smoking and tossing tread. It skidded sideways and slammed into a concrete pylon between the ends of the track.

Kowalski hooted his satisfaction and rubbed the side of his weapon. Thank you, baby!

Further self-congratulation was cut off as their cycle left the sandy wash and sailed back into coarser terrain. Spitting rocks, the cycle tore forward and reached the roadway in seconds.

The Russian jeep rested where it had crashed, one side crumpled, killing one of the soldiers in the front passenger seat. The other three occupants had piled out and retreated into a jumble of concrete barriers and low metal shacks that filled the space between the two track rails.

As Gray rounded into view, a roar of clapping erupted from the grandstands, along with cheering. The ceremony was reaching its climax. Covered by the noise,

Gray barely heard the shots fired at them. The bike's front tire blew, but Gray had anticipated an attack and aimed the cycle to the far side of the crumpled jeep. He slammed to a skidding stop behind it and rolled off the bike.

Kowalski tumbled out alongside him, and together they sheltered behind the crashed vehicle.

More rounds pinged off the front of the jeep.

Gray risked a fast peek around the rear bumper. He spotted a suited figure fleeing straight down the center of the tracks, which rose eight feet tall to either side, built of concrete and steel.

Nicolas Solokov was making a three-hundred-yard dash for the goal in this case, the back end of the rolling archway. Gray tried to get a shot at him, but a bullet struck the bumper and whistled past his ear. He caught a glimpse of a smoking pistol, borne aloft by a raven-haired woman.

Elena.

Cursing, he dropped back.

Kowalski yelped, nicked in the shoulder.

The woman and a soldier held them pinned down.

Gray checked his watch.

Ten minutes.

Nicolas heard gunfire behind him and tried to race faster down the concourse between the raised tracks, but he'd twisted his left ankle after the crash. He had to trust Elena to keep him safe.

Two workers walked behind the backside of the steel Shelter. The massive structure rolled slowly along the rails, creeping a foot a minute on Teflon bearings, drawn by the massive hydraulic pulling jacks to either side.

A garage-door-size service hatch lay open ahead and offered access to the inside of the looming Shelter. It was the main reason Nicolas had fled from the others.

He could not be sitting in front of that open door when Operation Uranus came to fruition.

He hobbled as fast as he could down the packed gravel roadway between the tracks. He had to get through that door, across the interior of the Shelter, and out the rear side before it closed.

Even he couldn't stop Operation Uranus.

All he could do was get out of its way.

The plan had been formulated back in 1999, when the Shelter Implementation Plan had first started. The SIP's goal was to stabilize and cover the old

Sarcophagus. Engineers had been warning for years that the old crypt could collapse at any moment, exposing two hundred tons of radioactive uranium to the atmosphere. By that time, sections of the old Sarcophagus had already begun to crumble. Tiny holes and fissures had formed. So the first phase of the SIP sought to stabilize the Sarcophagus. That meant patching holes, shoring up structural wall pillars, and securing the rickety ventilation stack. This was all done while the Shelter's massive arch was being constructed a safe four hundred yards away.

That initial structural work was completed in 1999 but it held some secrets.

After the fall of the Soviet Union, corruption ran rampant. It had cost little to have four concussion charges secretly planted into the new wall pillars. They had remained dormant and inactive until yesterday. Last night, one of Nicolas's men had sent a signal to the buried charges, setting the timers to match the closure of the Shelter over the Sarcophagus. Once set, there was no turning back.

At exactly two minutes before the Shelter sealed, the charges would blow. No one would even hear them. All that would be noted was a crash of concrete, followed by the collapse of an entire section of the Sarcophagus's wall the side that faced the grandstands. For an entire two minutes, the stands would be bathed in massive amounts of radiation before the Shelter finally sealed against the concrete wall behind the Sarcophagus. The exposure would not be enough to cause immediate fatalities. In fact, no one would feel anything. But during those two minutes, everyone in attendance would absorb a lethal dose of radiation.

They would all be dead within a matter of weeks.

In attendance were the Russian prime minister and president, alongside the leaders from across the Americas and the European Union. If successful,

Nicolas's mission would throw the major world governments into disarray, so that when the radiological bloom spread globally from his mother's operation at

Chelyabinsk 88, the world would need a strong voice, someone who had spent his career warning of just such a catastrophe.

They would turn to the only survivor of Operation Uranus.

And over the coming months guided by the secret cabal of savants Nicolas would demonstrate a remarkable prescience, intuitive knowledge, and brilliant foresight.

Out of the fire to come, Nicolas would quickly rise to power in Russia, and from there, stretch his influence globally. The Russian Empire would rise from these radioactive ashes to guide the world in a new direction.

It was such a thought that fueled him now.

He limped up to the two men following the back end of the Shelter. He pulled the pistol from his pocket. Two head shots. Almost point-blank. They dropped like leaden sacks to the gravel. There could be no witnesses.

Nicolas hurried through the open service hatch that pierced the back wall of the hangar. It took a dozen steps to cross through the hatch. The Shelter's steel walls were twelve meters thick.

Once through, Nicolas entered the heart of the Shelter.

Despite his desperation, he gaped at the sheer wonder of the massive space. The arch of steel climbed a hundred meters overhead and was two and a half times as wide. Cavernous did not describe the place. Like stars in the night sky, hundreds of lamps lit the vast interior, positioned along steel scaffolding that lined the inside of the Shelter. Overhead, a maze of yellow tracks crisscrossed the roof. Giant robotic cranes waited stationary, ready to tear apart the old

Sarcophagus. Giant hooks the size of ships' anchors and skeletal pronged grips hung from the trolley cranes.

Just inside the Shelter, Nicolas stopped long enough to hit the giant red button that closed the service hatch. It trundled slowly closed behind him, creeping down on giant gears.

According to their original plan, Nicolas and Elena were to hole up outside in a control booth on the far side of the Shelter. The booth, which controlled the winch engines, was heavily lead-lined to protect the operator from any radiation. It was also positioned on the opposite side from the concussive charges, so exposure should be minimal.

Nicolas needed to reach that booth, but if Elena remained pinned down between the tracks back there, he wanted to protect her from the burst of radiation that would come. Though not in a direct line of the exposure like the grandstands, her position could still be exposed to scatter radiation through the open rear hatch maybe not enough to kill her, but it could destroy her chances of having healthy children.

So to protect his own future genetic heritage, Nicolas sought to shield her. But more than that, he could not totally discount that he did care for the woman.

His mother would interpret such tender feelings as weakness, but Nicolas could not deny his heart.

As the door slowly lowered, Nicolas headed off.

Elena! Gray called out from behind the jeep. You must help us!

There was no answer.

At least not from Elena.

Pierce, I don't think you're going to talk your way out of this, Kowalski said. His partner crouched a few steps away. His shoulder wept blood through his jacket, but it was only a graze. She's one crazy bitch. Why is it always the crazy ones who are such good shots?

I don't think she's crazy, Gray mumbled.

At least he hoped not.

He had seen how she had reacted to the revelation that Sasha was Nicolas's biological daughter. A mix of shocked dismay and protectiveness. There was some connection between Elena and the girl, something more than just an augmented sisterhood.

He had to trust he was correct.

Sasha came to me! Gray called out. Sought me out. She guided us here for a reason.

Silence stretched. Then a soft voice finally spoke. How? How did Sasha guide you here?

Elena was testing him.

Gray took a deep breath. He lifted his rifle in the air and tossed it aside.

Pierce , Kowalski growled. If you think I'm throwing my gun away, you're as nutty as she is.

Gray stood up.

Across the gap, the Russian soldier's rifle shifted toward him. Elena also rose and barked at the soldier, keeping him from shooting outright. Elena wanted to know more about Sasha. Across the way, the Russian pair shared a fortress of concrete pylons. Elena kept her pistol pointed at him.

Gray answered her question. How did Sasha guide us? She drew pictures. First she guided the Gypsies to my door. Then she drew a picture of the Taj Mahal, which guided us to India, where we discovered your true heritage and history.

You have to ask yourself why. Sasha is special, is she not?

Elena just stared at him with her hard, dark eyes.

Gray took that as agreement and continued, letting her see and hear the truth in his words. Why were we sent to India? Why even engage us at all? Why now? There has to be a reason. I think Sasha consciously or unconsciously is trying to stop what you're planning on doing.

Elena showed no flicker of acknowledgment, but Gray was still alive.

She sent us on a path to discover your roots: from the Oracle of Delphi, through the Gypsies, to now. I think there was some reason your lineage was begun. Perhaps the fulfillment of a great prophecy that is yet to come.

What prophecy? Elena asked.

Gray noted a flicker of both recognition and fear. Was there some nightmare etched into their psyches? Gray pictured the mosaics found at the Greek stronghold in India, including the last mosaic on the wall, a fiery shape rising out of smoke from the omphalos. Gray took a chance and quickly described what they had found, finishing with, The figure looked like a boy with eyes of fire.

The pistol in Elena's arm began to tremble though it still didn't waver from its aim at his chest. Gray heard Elena mumble a name that sounded like Peter.

Who is Peter? Gray asked.

Pyotr, Elena corrected. Sasha's brother. He has nightmares sometimes. Wakes screaming, saying his eyes are on fire. But but

What? Gray pressed, intrigued despite the time pressure.

When he wakes, we all do. For just a moment, we see Pyotr burning. She shook her head. But his talent is empathy. He's very strong. We attributed the nightmares to some quake of his talent that radiated outward. An empathic echo.

It's not just an echo from Pyotr, Gray realized aloud. It's an echo going back to the beginning.

But where does it end?

Gray stared over to Elena. You cannot truly want what is to come. Sasha plainly did not. She brought me here. If she wanted Nicolas's plan to work, all she had to do was remain silent. But she didn't. She brought me to you, Elena. To you.

To this moment. You have the chance to either help Sasha or destroy what she started. It's your choice.

Her decision was instantaneous, perhaps born out of the fire in her brain. She pivoted on a toe and fired. The Russian soldier dropped, killed instantly.

Gray hurried over to her. How do we stop Operation Uranus?

You cannot, she answered, her voice slightly dazed, perhaps dizzy from the sudden reversal of roles, or perhaps merely waking from a long dream.

Elena handed Gray her pistol, as if knowing where he must go. He was already sidling past her and heading off between the rails. If she didn't know how to stop Operation Uranus, perhaps Nicolas did.

You must hurry, she said. But I I may know a way to help.

She turned and glanced toward the back side of the complex, where Nicolas been headed originally.

Gray pointed to the motorcycle. Though the front tire was flat, it would still be faster than on foot. Kowalski, help her.

But she shot me.

Gray didn't have time to argue. He turned and sprinted through the forest of concrete pylons. The way opened ahead, lined by the tracks to either side. At the other end of the concourse, he spotted Nicolas limping through a wide door in the massive steel wall and vanishing into the darkness.

Gray pounded down the way.

Down to six minutes.

As he flew, he saw the black gap in the steel wall begin to narrow. The door was closing.

They'd escaped the jail, but now what?

Elizabeth ran behind Rosauro, while Luca trailed and guarded their backs with a pistol. Using his cane, Masterson limped as best he could next to Elizabeth. She helped the old man by holding on to his elbow.

Their first priority was to find a phone and to raise an alarm. But the entire city appeared haunted and desolate. Birches grew out of broken streets, weeds grew everywhere, buildings were scribed with lichen and moss. How were they going to find a working phone here?

The next intersection! Masterson gasped and waved his cane while taking a hop on his good leg. To the left. The Polissia Hotel should be at the end of that next block.

Masterson had suggested the destination. Apparently the hotel had been renovated for a gala the prior night and was being used this morning as a shuttle station for guests invited to the ceremony.

But what about uninvited guests?

Elizabeth had caught a glimpse of Gray and Kowalski flying away on a motorcycle as they'd made their own escape. She hoped they were okay and could do something to stop that bastard. As she fled with the others, her head ached and her eyes strained. Tension and fear wore her down.

I'm sorry, Elizabeth, Masterson wheezed.

She glanced at him. She knew he was apologizing for more than just involving her and the others in this escapade.

I truly didn't think your father was in any bloody danger, he explained. I thought the Russians' interest in Archibald's work was just a matter of industrial espionage, stealing data. I never thought it would result in his death.

Even though she understood the professor's position in the past and recognized the international threat now, she could not find her way to forgiving him. Not for her father, and not for involving them in all this without their consent.

She was tired of secrets both her father's and this man's.

As they neared the intersection, two Russian soldiers stepped from a doorway.

One dropped a cigarette and ground it underfoot. The other lifted his rifle and barked at them in Russian.

Kak tebya zavut?

Let me handle this, Masterson said and waved for Rosauro and Luca to lower their weapons.

The professor straightened his white hat and leaned more heavily on his cane. He doddered to the front and called out in Russian, Dobraye utro!

Masterson spoke fluently. All Elizabeth understood were the words London Times.

Masterson must be attempting to pass them off as visiting press.

The soldier lowered his weapon. You are Englishers.

Masterson nodded with a broad, embarrassed smile. You speak English. Brilliant.

We've gotten ourselves lost and could not find our way back to the Polissia

Hotel. If you'd be so kind, perhaps you could escort us back there.

From the crinkling of the soldiers' brows, they must not have understood him that well. Masterson was using their own lack of fluency to unbalance them, to deflect them from questioning the cover story. But the soldier with the rifle did understand their goal.

Polissia Gostineetsa? he asked.

Da! Now there's a good chap. Could you take us there?

The pair spoke in rapid snatches of Russian. Finally one shrugged and the other turned with a nod.

Behind them, a scream of a motorcycle erupted, shattering the quiet town. Far down the street, in the direction of the jail, a motorcycle with a flashing blue light and sidecar swung into the road, bearing two soldiers with furred caps.

They were spotted. Shouts called out in Russian toward them.

Suddenly the pair of soldiers in front of them stiffened.

Trouble, Masterson said and pushed Elizabeth down the street. Run!

Rosauro spun on a heel and snap-kicked the closest soldier in the face. Bone cracked, and he fell stiffly backward. The other guard lifted his weapon, but

Luca was quicker on the draw with his pistol. Blood exploded from the soldier's shoulder, twisting him around as if mule-kicked, but his weapon chattered with automatic fire, sweeping toward them.

Masterson rolled and shielded Elizabeth, while both Luca and Rosauro dropped flat to the street. The professor fell against her and knocked her to her knees.

Luca's pistol cracked again, and the gunfire ended.