reached, a raid force had been inserted, a trap laid for whoever might try to follow them.
Kealey realized that he and Allison couldn’t just stay out in the open. Even if they didn’t reach Colin right away, they had to get out of here.
“Listen to me,” he said, pressing his lips to Allison’s ear. “Stay flat, and move to your left. We need to get closer to the wall.”
She made a small sound of acknowledgment and wriggled toward the wall on her stomach. Kealey moved along with her, his gun fully extended in his right hand. Their movement prompted another barrage of fire from the other side of the walkway. More glass popped and sprayed around them. They slid a little farther and stopped, Allison having gone as far as she could, pressed between his body and the passage’s wall.
Better, Kealey thought. Propping himself up slightly on his elbows, he pulled his left hand away from her, shifted it to his pistol grip so both hands were folded around the weapon. He was breathing heavily, and the smoke was pungent enough to sting his nostrils. But the haze itself wasn’t too bad. He could see the shooters if they moved.
He stared over his sight, waiting. Then he glimpsed the snub-nosed barrel of an assault weapon poking from behind the wall to his right, fingers in cutoff gloves wrapped around its forestock. A poor target, but his goal was not necessarily to score a hit with his first shots.
Taking a steadying breath and exhaling quickly, Kealey squeezed off a round. He missed the gunman, as expected, but the killer went for the bait. He leaned around to return fire and this time exposed himself enough for Kealey to get a clear shot. He pulled the trigger, and the pistol discharged with two sharp cracks, his arm jolting with recoil. The masked man fell back silently, clutching his throat, the MP5K dropping from his grasp.
Kealey quickly rolled onto his left side, saw the second gunman lean through the entrance from the right, his weapon spurting. Bullets splattered where Kealey had been just moments before, pecking into the low walls and fallen glass to the left of Allison. Kealey took aim over the nub of his sight and fired three rounds in rapid succession. His shirt puffing at his chest, the shooter jerked violently and then sagged forward onto the floor of the walkway.
Kealey didn’t waste an instant pushing to his feet. It bothered him for a moment that he might have just killed two Americans, possibly brothers in arms with the Company. For all he knew, the rent-a-cops had been part of an enemy plot and these guys were just cleaning up.
In which case they should have identified themselves, he told himself.
It was all that gray in a world that had once been black and white that had driven him to seek Allison’s counsel in the first place. Espionage was not a business for anyone who craved clarity.
“Stay down until I call you,” he said to Allison when the gunfire failed to draw reinforcements.
His pulse thudding in his ears, he ran across the walkway in a half crouch, stopping to check on the first man. He was completely motionless where he’d fallen, a fist-sized hole in his throat, blood pooling on the tile. Kealey whirled toward the second shooter, who was still alive and was struggling to get off his back by rolling onto his side. Seriously wounded, the front of his shirt soaked with blood, he had managed to hang on to his gun and was bringing it up into firing position.
Kealey took a lunging stride toward him, kicked the weapon from his grasp, and smashed his foot into the vicinity of his chest wound, at the same time driving him back against the side of the walkway. The gunman produced a low, froggy croak and went limp, sagging against the wall.
Moving swiftly to retrieve the shooter’s weapon, Kealey slung its strap over his arm, knelt over his motionless form, and pressed the muzzle of his Sig into the man’s temple. But he realized at once that additional force would not be necessary. The
Kealey realized that he and Allison couldn’t just stay out in the open. Even if they didn’t reach Colin right away, they had to get out of here.
“Listen to me,” he said, pressing his lips to Allison’s ear. “Stay flat, and move to your left. We need to get closer to the wall.”
She made a small sound of acknowledgment and wriggled toward the wall on her stomach. Kealey moved along with her, his gun fully extended in his right hand. Their movement prompted another barrage of fire from the other side of the walkway. More glass popped and sprayed around them. They slid a little farther and stopped, Allison having gone as far as she could, pressed between his body and the passage’s wall.
Better, Kealey thought. Propping himself up slightly on his elbows, he pulled his left hand away from her, shifted it to his pistol grip so both hands were folded around the weapon. He was breathing heavily, and the smoke was pungent enough to sting his nostrils. But the haze itself wasn’t too bad. He could see the shooters if they moved.
He stared over his sight, waiting. Then he glimpsed the snub-nosed barrel of an assault weapon poking from behind the wall to his right, fingers in cutoff gloves wrapped around its forestock. A poor target, but his goal was not necessarily to score a hit with his first shots.
Taking a steadying breath and exhaling quickly, Kealey squeezed off a round. He missed the gunman, as expected, but the killer went for the bait. He leaned around to return fire and this time exposed himself enough for Kealey to get a clear shot. He pulled the trigger, and the pistol discharged with two sharp cracks, his arm jolting with recoil. The masked man fell back silently, clutching his throat, the MP5K dropping from his grasp.
Kealey quickly rolled onto his left side, saw the second gunman lean through the entrance from the right, his weapon spurting. Bullets splattered where Kealey had been just moments before, pecking into the low walls and fallen glass to the left of Allison. Kealey took aim over the nub of his sight and fired three rounds in rapid succession. His shirt puffing at his chest, the shooter jerked violently and then sagged forward onto the floor of the walkway.
Kealey didn’t waste an instant pushing to his feet. It bothered him for a moment that he might have just killed two Americans, possibly brothers in arms with the Company. For all he knew, the rent-a-cops had been part of an enemy plot and these guys were just cleaning up.
In which case they should have identified themselves, he told himself.
It was all that gray in a world that had once been black and white that had driven him to seek Allison’s counsel in the first place. Espionage was not a business for anyone who craved clarity.
“Stay down until I call you,” he said to Allison when the gunfire failed to draw reinforcements.
His pulse thudding in his ears, he ran across the walkway in a half crouch, stopping to check on the first man. He was completely motionless where he’d fallen, a fist-sized hole in his throat, blood pooling on the tile. Kealey whirled toward the second shooter, who was still alive and was struggling to get off his back by rolling onto his side. Seriously wounded, the front of his shirt soaked with blood, he had managed to hang on to his gun and was bringing it up into firing position.
Kealey took a lunging stride toward him, kicked the weapon from his grasp, and smashed his foot into the vicinity of his chest wound, at the same time driving him back against the side of the walkway. The gunman produced a low, froggy croak and went limp, sagging against the wall.
Moving swiftly to retrieve the shooter’s weapon, Kealey slung its strap over his arm, knelt over his motionless form, and pressed the muzzle of his Sig into the man’s temple. But he realized at once that additional force would not be necessary. The
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