Rafe leaned close enough to bring his nose to the screen. He pressed to activate Bern’s radio. “Get up!” he repeated.
He didn’t so much care if Bern captured the shooter. He just wanted to see what was happening. He leaned back, a tight grin on his face. All of this was quite exciting.
11:40 P.M.
Painter sprinted down the hall. It was a straight run to reach the laboratory at the back of the facility. Ahead, a set of double doors creaked open. He spotted Kowalski spying out, his pistol pointing down the hall toward Painter. He must have heard the gunfire.
Painter yelled, “Get everyone back! Into cover!”
Obeying, Kowalski retreated, but not before he kicked the door wide, opening the way for Painter’s headlong flight.
Every second counted.
As he ran, Painter pulled back the shotgun’s pump, ejecting the spent cartridge. Cradling the Mossberg under an arm, he freed the jury-rigged shell from his pocket and fumbled it into the empty chamber. Once this was done, he slid the pump forward, pushing the block and firing pin into position.
He would have only one shot.
As he reached the lab door, the crack of a pistol sounded behind him. He felt a burning slice across his upper arm as a bullet grazed him. Glancing back, he saw the downed commando, limbs still twitching, haul himself around the corner. The pistol, wavering in his grip, fired again, but missed.
Painter grimly admitted the truth to himself: That’s one tough bastard.
Reaching the lab, he dove inside and pulled the door shut behind him. Seconds later, the staccato rounds of an automatic rifle pounded the steel door as the rest of the assault team must have reached the hallway. The gunfire continued without pause.
He had no time.
To make matters worse, he was blind. With the door shut, the laboratory was pitch-black. He skidded deeper into the room, one arm in front to keep from crashing into something.
“Where?” he yelled above the ringing cacophony of the assault.
Ahead, a flashlight ignited, spearing the room with a dazzling brightness. It revealed the others hidden behind the heavy bulk of a Van de Graaff accelerator, part of a larger complex that extended deeper into the cavernous room.
Painter hurried toward them, scanning the roof for the C4.
“Behind you!” Kowalski yelled from his shelter. “Above the door.”
Painter swung around and stared up. The flashlight’s beam centered on a yellow-grayish glob of explosive crammed into a crevice above the door. It looked like an old stress fracture that had recently been patched. Kowalski had chosen a good spot.
He raised his shotgun—just as the double doors were yanked open in front of him. Gunfire strafed blindly into the room. Painter stumbled away and dropped to his back. A pair of commandos rushed into the lab under the cover of the barrage. Kowalski returned fire from his sheltered position.
Painter caught a glimpse of the soldier he’d Tasered out in the hallway. The guy pointed an arm, barking orders, clearly the leader.
Painter couldn’t give him any more attention than that.
From the floor, he lifted his shotgun, centered his aim on the patch of C4, and pulled the trigger. The shotgun blasted, the XREP dart flew out, and a spat of electricity sparked along the roof as it impacted—but nothing else happened.
Kowalski swore, clearly girding himself for the pitched firefight to come.
What had gone wr—
—a deafening boom knocked the wind from Painter’s lungs and flung his body against the bulk of the accelerator. As he flew back, he watched the two commandos in the room get flattened, pounded first by the shock wave, then buried under a tumble of cement, twisted rebar, and soil.
Smoke and dust rolled across the room, billowing deeply into the facility.
Dazed, he felt his body lifted off the floor. Kowalski had him under one arm, hauling Kai with the other. Ears still ringing, he struggled to get his legs under him. Ahead, slabs of broken debris blocked the doorway, cutting off the hunters. Painter craned up. In the smoke-choked darkness, light flowed down through the roof.
Moonlight, achingly bright.
They’d done it.
11:42 P.M.
Rafe stood before the desk that held his laptop. He folded his fingers atop his head, staring at the ruins of a hallway as his team retreated. He finally let out the long breath he’d been holding.
He lowered his arms, balling both hands into fists.
He glanced to Ashanda, as if silently asking her if she’d witnessed what had happened on the screen. She still sat with the small boy, who looked half comatose from shock.
Rafe could relate.
His heart pounded, firing his blood. While he was certainly angry, a part of him could not help but be impressed.
So our quarry found some help . . . a bodyguard with some skill.
If nothing else, Bern had gotten a good picture of the wily culprit from his helmet-mounted camera, just before the explosion dropped the roof. While the photo was grainy, the camera managed to capture a full view of his face. The new enhancing software and facial-recognition program developed by a Saint Germaine family subsidiary for Europol should make short shrift of identifying the man.
Over the radio, Bern’s voice came garbled with digital dropouts. “. . . escaped on foot. Local law enforcement and emergency response teams are already arriving on-site. What . . . orders?”
Rafe sighed, damping down the fire in his blood. It was a shame. With the limits of his body, it wasn’t often he got to enjoy such a heady rush of adrenaline. He spoke into his throat mike. “Clear out. The targets won’t remain in the area. We’ll pick up their trail again.”
It sounded like Bern wanted to argue, furious at the loss of his teammates. It must be his Aryan blood, fueling that Germanic desire for immediate revenge. But Bern would have to learn patience. If there was one true source behind the wealth and power of the Saint Germaine family, it came from their knowledge of, appreciation for, and skill in le long jeu.
The long game.
And with his unique mind, there was no better player than Rafael Saint Germaine. For others this might be a mere boast, but he’d proven himself time and again. It was why he stood here now, assigned by the family to chase after a treasure going back millennia.
Was there any longer game?
After Bern signed off, Rafe crossed back to his laptop and brought up the image of the shadowy intruder into their affairs. Many primitive cultures put great stock in names, believing that to obtain such details granted special powers over others. Rafe believed this down to his crumbling bones.
He leaned on his fists atop the desk and stared at his adversary.