Going Dark(107)
Thorn tucked his flashlight in his waistband, took a grip on the lower rail, and kicked out over the blue water, swinging like one of those high-bar gymnasts working up to a full three-sixty, only Thorn was a long way past his prime and had only the smallest of windows to sail through. Splashing into that pool was not an option.
His hands held firm as he kicked out parallel to the water, then gravity swung him down and he timed his release, dismounting the rail and flying feetfirst through the space between the two ramps, a crazy Tarzan yell breaking from his lungs.
Aiming for Pauly’s head, but mistiming and sideswiping the guard instead. Thorn knocked the man’s weapon loose, sent him sprawling backward into the rail, and Thorn thudded down against the steel ramp hard on his rump.
Quick-stepping to the guard, Pauly kicked his machine pistol over the side, and it splashed into the turquoise water. Pauly aimed his pistol at the security man’s face, but Thorn scooted in front of the guy and struggled to his feet.
“Let him go. He’s no threat.”
Pauly blinked at Thorn and aimed past him at the man.
Thorn dodged to his left and blocked him again. “This isn’t what he meant.”
“What?”
“Putting the genie back in the bottle.”
“I should never have told you about that.”
“He didn’t mean to send you off killing people.”
“How do you know what he meant?”
“You know he didn’t. He meant the opposite.”
The security guy had gotten to his feet. A man in his thirties, face shiny with sweat. “Hey, look. I got three kids, a new puppy for godsakes.”
Pauly aimed the pistol at him again and told him to shut up and turn around and walk the fuck out of here, then run as far away as he could get.
“Thanks,” the man said. “Thanks to both of you.”
When he was gone, Thorn held out his hand, palm up. “Give me the gun.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It’s over. We did what we set out to do. Bringing down that cooling tower, man, that’s enough for one day. Time for a pitcher of beer.”
“Still the funnyman.”
“I’m dead serious. We’re done.”
By now Thorn had seen Pauly’s moves often enough to know his mouth went slack before he attacked. So Thorn’s hand was already moving to the handle of the flashlight when Pauly drew back his hand and sidearmed his pistol toward Thorn’s skull. A recap of what he’d done to Sheffield, pistol-whipping him to his knees.
The flashlight blunted the blow and the handgun broke loose from Pauly’s grip and sailed into the pool. Thorn pivoted on his good leg, bent low, rammed the butt of the flashlight into Pauly’s crotch, and heard the satisfying sound of Pauly’s wail as he pitched back against the railing.
But Thorn was wrong. It wasn’t a wail.
It was a war whoop, for Pauly bounced off the railing as if it were the elastic ropes of a boxing ring, and he was propelled forward into Thorn’s gut, driving his shoulder deep, knocking loose Thorn’s breath, then hauling him upright, lifting him overhead, a swiftly executed clean and jerk, then carrying him two steps toward the edge of the ramp. Squirming, Thorn stared down into the irradiated blue, seeing the dark racks at the bottom lurking like a toxic reef.
Helpless in Pauly’s grip, Thorn went still and tried to pick a handhold he could swipe at on his flight toward the water. A bundle of wires looping out from a girder looked promising. Thorn focused on that bundle as Pauly made a half turn to his right and tossed Thorn headfirst against the steel ramp.
FORTY-TWO
CLAUDE WAS HAVING CHILLS. HIS pecker twitching inside his boxers. Fucking cooling tower coming down in an avalanche of dust. This half-assed attack had morphed into something else. This would go international. It would be all-time big, up there with the Twin Towers and Pearl Harbor in the annals of disaster lore. It would last for weeks on the front page, take up the full evening news. His pecker might never stop twitching.
This was the end of days, the whole, entire doomsday enchilada, best possible event a security professional such as Claude could dream of. And he was dead center. Claude the vortex. Claude the calm, still eye of the storm.
He waited silently, standing twenty yards from the loading dock that led into the control-room complex. Him and his six best. In the shadows, next to a Dumpster that was shielded by a slatted wall. Peering through the slats, watching the action. Six more guys waiting inside, his fucking pincer movement about to pince.
They stayed put, even after seeing the north cooling tower coming down, stayed put watching Leslie and Cameron Prince roll up to the loading ramp, get out, go in through the door Claude had left unlocked, he and his men watching them unload the creatures, start to carry them inside. He waited until both of them were inside the building, Sheffield still in the truck. Bound up, it looked like. Sitting there in the backseat. A gift.