Breaking Point (36 page)

Ventura didn't stop to examine the pair he'd shot; he took off at a run, straight to the street.

Michaels scrambled from under the bushes and followed, but he stayed crouched, using cover. He did not want Ventura to look back and see him, no, not after that display. Not only was the man a killer, he was expert at it. To take out two men with guns already pointed at you? That was either great skill or great luck, and Michaels didn't want to test either.

Lights started to go on in houses along the street. They probably didn't get a lot of gunfire up here on a week-night. No, probably not.

Michaels ran on the darker side of the street, and he had his taser in his hand. He hoped he wouldn't have to get close enough to Ventura to have to use it.

Ventura smiled to himself as he ran. He did a tactical reload, changing magazines, dropping the one missing three shots into his windbreaker pocket. Those had probably been Chinese agents--feds would have yelled out their ID, and there would have been more of them.

Speed was the most important thing now. Gunfire in a quiet neighborhood would wake people up, somebody'd call the police, and even if they were slow, it would only be a few minutes before cops got here. He'd have a little while longer before the locals unraveled things, enough time to get clear of the city, but he had to figure they might have spotted him earlier, noticed his car, so a different vehicle was going to be necessary. The sooner he found one, the better.

He was going to have to get rid of this Coonan, too--he hadn't had time to stop and pick up his expended brass here, and this gun already had two shootings on it, in Alaska and in California. Under better circumstances, he would have dropped the pistol into a lake or ocean after the first time he'd used it, but there simply hadn't been time. Only a fool would hold on to something that would get him the death penalty if he was caught with it. He had other guns, and as soon as he could get to them, he'd lose this one.

There was an old pickup truck parked on the street half a block ahead of him. That would do. He could break the window, get inside, crack the ignition for a hot-wire, be gone in another two minutes.

He glanced behind him. No sign of pursuit, no men chasing him with guns. Maybe those were the only two. Maybe.

But even as he ran, that part of him that feasted on danger grinned and smacked its chops, looking for more. There was nothing like an adrenaline rush, the immediate sense of danger and possible death. He should be afraid, but what he felt was closer to orgasm than fear. He had the prize, he was on his way, enemies were down. All around him, life was crystalline, razor-sharp, throbbing with triumph.

He lived, they died.

It didn't get any better than this.

Here was the truck. Try the door--hah! not even locked! He reached up over the visor, just in case--and lo! the keys!

He laughed aloud. No. It couldn't get any better than this!

He put the gun down on the seat and shoved the key into the ignition slot--

"Going somewhere, Colonel?"

Surprised, Ventura jumped, started to grab the Coonan--

"Don't! You won't make it!"

Ventura froze. He looked up.

Standing six feet away, a shotgun aimed at Ventura's head, was General Jackson "Bull" Smith. Smiling.

This was not in Ventura's game plan. "General. Odd running into you here."

"Not odd at all, Luther. Me and a few of the boys have been waiting for you to show up."

"Those two were yours?"

"They were."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. They deserved what they got--it was a bonehead move, going at you face-on."

Smith smiled again, and the shotgun didn't waver a hair. Ventura was looking right down the muzzle.
Twelve-gauge,
he noted.
Modified choke.

"There was a pair of other guys here before us, commie agents, near as we could tell, but they ... went away."

"I thought there might be. Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. I had a couple other boys tailing you, but you lost 'em after that mess in Los Angeles. Lost your client, too, that's a real shame. Figured you'd show up here sooner or later."

"You continue to surprise me, General. How?'

"Because there are better surveillance gadgets than the ones you had in your car at the compound, that's how. You think because we live up in the woods and stomp around in the bear shit we don't have access to modem technology? You get a flunking grade for underestimating folks, Luther. Especially your friends. You should have cut me in, instead of trying to bullshit me with that story of yours."

Ventura smiled and shook his head. "I sit corrected, General. Real impressive work. Not too late to make amends, is it?"

"I'm afraid it is, Colonel, I'm afraid it is."

When he saw the man with the shotgun point the weapon at Ventura where he sat in the truck he was presumably going to steal, Michaels slid into a front yard and behind a thick-boled Douglas fir tree. He was across the street and they were busy enough with each other that they hadn't noticed him. Reaching down, he hit the alarm button on his virgil. It would take them a minute or two to react, but he was no longer worried about alerting Ventura.

Now what? Who was this guy? Was he connected to the two dead men at Morrison's? What the hell was going on?

Michaels was sixty, seventy feet away, and the taser was accurate for fifteen or twenty feet, if you were lucky. But he'd only get one shot and then he'd have to reload, and as John Howard and Julio Fernandez had pointed out to him, the fastest taser reloader in the world could not outpace a handgun with multiple rounds. Net Force computer and management people were supposed to be desk jockeys, they didn't
need
guns, that's what the military arm was for.

If he got out of this alive, Michaels planned to start carrying a real gun.

Yeah. Unfortunately, the military arm was not here, he didn't have a real gun, and a taser was what he did have. So--who to shoot?--assuming he could get close enough to shoot either one of them?

He couldn't hear what they were saying to each other, but he was able to hear what the shotgunner said next, because he said it loudly: "Bubba!"

A shaven-headed bodybuilder in dark camo approached the truck from the passenger side, a long-barreled pistol in his hands. He was careful not to come in straight on, but angled slightly from the back. Good move--that would keep him out of the shotgunner's line of fire if things started cooking.

Nothing like another little complication to make his life harder.

Even if he'd had an assault rifle instead of the taser, Michaels didn't like those odds. And he didn't know who these new players were--in theory, they might even be on his side.

Maybe he should wait a second and see what happened before he stood up and commanded everybody to drop their weapons. Maybe a couple of seconds.

Ventura felt the adrenaline pop and bubble in him, heard its siren song calling him to action.
You're invincible, it
said.
Nobody has ever been able to beat you. You're the best there ever was! Kill them!

"All right," Smith said. "Here is how it is gonna go. You give me whatever it was you came here to collect. Then you can be on your way, your life for the data. I figure that's an even trade. If anything that looks like a weapon comes out of your pocket, we take what we want off your body. This pump's carrying eight rounds of number 4 buckshot. I don't have to tell you what that will do to your face at this range."

"No."

Smith might not be a real general, but he had been a real soldier, and he did have a shotgun pointed at Ventura. Bubba, on the other side of the truck, had a handgun. But if Bubba fired first, he would have to shoot through the glass, and his angle might partially deflect the bullet. If Ventura ducked suddenly, Smith would probably pull the trigger, and with any luck, the charge of BBs would go right over his head and through the passenger window. It would take half a second for Smith to rack the slide for a second shot, and while a full-sized American pickup truck's door would not stop a deer or sabot slug from a twelve-gauge, it would stop a load of number 4 buck, or most of it.

Ventura weighed his chances. This was it. He had assessed the situation as best he could. As soon as he handed over the disk, he was a dead man anyway. Smith couldn't let him walk away and expect to sleep nights, because sooner or later, he'd know that Ventura would come for him. And a wire enclosure full of men playing soldier wouldn't be enough protection, Smith knew that. The only reason he didn't shoot him now was to make sure he had the data, and to find out what he could about it.

Here was the moment. No past. No future. Be here now.

He smiled and made his decision. The only one he could make.

"All right, General. We'll play it your way--"

--but as fast as he could move, Ventura ducked and grabbed for his pistol--

Chapter
39.

Wednesday, June 15th

Port Townsend, Washington

As it sometimes did when things turned violently dangerous, time narrowed and slowed. Michaels saw Ventura disappear from sight, and the blast of the shotgun was a tremendous
boom!
immediately after that--

Bubba fired his pistol, a thin and almost quiet
crack! crack!
and two holes appeared in the truck's windshield--

Somehow, amazed at himself, Michaels found himself on his feet, running
toward
the shooting, his tiny, insignificant taser stretched out in front of himself at arm's length--

Ventura's hand came up inside the truck like a periscope, a pistol in it, and he fired at the shotgunner, twisted, and fired at Bubba
--blam! blam!--
that quick--

The shotgunner went down, hit in the body, but Bubba had dodged as soon as Ventura's pistol came up, and he fired his own gun wildly, six--eight?--times; it sounded almost like a full-auto, one continuous
crackcrackcrackcrack!
and it must have run empty because it stopped--

Ventura sat up, and he shoved his pistol toward the shotgunner, but the man rolled and came up and pointed the shotgun at Ventura again and fired--

Michaels saw Ventura take the blast in the chest and bang into the steering wheel, but he managed to get off another shot that seemed to hit the shotgunner without major effect. The shotgunner let go a third blast--

Ventura disappeared from view--

Michaels realized he was screaming, as the shotgunner turned his head and stared at him in surprise. He started to bring the shotgun around, and it was too far for a taser shot, but Michaels triggered the thing anyway. Twin silvery needles lanced at the shotgunner--he could see the electric darts--but they hit the shotgun, one in the butt, one in the forestock, and that wouldn't do shit--

The shotgun's muzzle came around, slowly ...
slowly ...
and it was almost lined up when the shooter realized Michaels was about to barrel into him at a dead run, so he fired--

Too soon! The blast went past Michaels's right ear; he felt a tug and a quick burn, but that was all, and then he slammed into the shooter at a dead run and they both went down--

The impact stunned them both, but Michaels recovered first. He rolled up and kicked at the other man's head. He missed, but caught a shoulder as the shotgunner tried to roll away--

The shotgun was on the street five yards down the hill.

Michaels was aware that Bubba was on the other side of the truck, probably reloading his pistol, and that he didn't have time to fool around here. The shotgunner came up, groggy, hands rising in a defensive posture, and Michaels didn't wait, but leaped in and snapped his elbow right at the man's temple, as hard as he could. There was a damp
snap!
and the man went down bonelessly limp, but Bubba was coming around the front of the truck, Bubba and his pistol, and Michaels knew he was screwed--

He was going to die--

Somebody flew out of nowhere and slammed into Bubba from behind, knocking his pistol loose as he went to one knee. His attacker dived and rolled up, two yards past Bubba, spun to face him--

Michaels stared, unable to believe what he saw.

Toni
?!

The big man went down to his knee, and she had too much momentum to stop, so Toni stretched out into a shoulder roll, hit the road hard enough to clack her teeth together, but came up mostly unhurt. Shoulder was gonna be real sore--assuming she survived that long.

The big man was up, coming at her. He swung a punch that would have flattened a horse had it hit, a hard right cross--

Toni ducked, double-tapped the man's thick and muscular arm with her left palm and right backhand, used the momentum of the second tap to cock her elbow, and stepped in at an angle to her left--he was too big to meet head-on--then slammed her right elbow into his ribs.

She felt the ribs go, heard him grunt and slow his advance a little, but it wasn't enough to stop him; he kept coming. He was too big, too strong--if he grabbed her, that would be bad--